P^-  IfldL  vhyufk 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


New  Six  Shilling  Novels 

CONCERNING  A  VOW Rhoda  Broughton 

THE  HOUR  OP  CONFLICT         A.  Hamilton  Gibbs 

A  NEW  NOVEL »         Rene  Milan 

THE  SINS  OP  HER  IDOLS  ..         ..     Coralie  Stanton  and  Heath  Hosken 

THE  PRICE  OF  DELUSION        Sir  William  Magnay 

THAT  STRANGE  AFFAIR  Walter  Brugge- Vallon 

UNDER  THE  INCENSE  TREES Cecil  Adair 

THE  CRIMSON  MASCOT Charles  E.  Pearce 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  LOOKED  BACK M.Hamilton 

THE  SPLIT  PEAS Headon  Hill 

THE  PRICELESS  THING Mrs.  Stepney  Rawson 

THE  ORANGE  LILT         .. L.T.Meade 

THE  WATER-FLY Annesley  Kenealy 

FRIVOLE Kate  Horn 

BARBED  WIRE      ..         ..         -         E.Everett-Green 

TAINTED  GOLD H.  Noel  Williams 

THE  SDLENT  CAPTADf May  Wynne 

THE  GATES  OF  DOOM Rafael  Sabatini 

CUPID'S  CATERERS         Ward  Muir 

ELIZABETH'S  PRISONER        # L.  T.  Meade 

THE  TWW-SOUL  OF  O'TAKE  SAN     ..         ..        Baroness  Albert  d'Anethan 

OPAL  OF  OCTOBER         Joy  Shirley 

A  GENTLEWOMAN  OF  FRANCE  Rene  Boylesve 

JILL— ALL-ALONE "Rita" 

THE  WATERS  OF  LETHE  (and  edition)        Dorothea  Gerard 

A  FLUTE  OF  ARCADY Kate  Horn 

RODING  RECTORY  Archibald  Marshall 

THE  FOUR  FACES  (5th  edition)  William  Le  Queux 

GABRIEL'S  GARDEN  (and  edition)       ..         ..         ...         ..  Cecil  Adair 

A  WD7E  OUT  OF  EGYPT  (6th  edition)  Norma  Lorimer 

YOUTH  WILL  BE  SERVED  (6th  edition)       Dolf  Wyllarde 

MARCELLE  THE  LOVABLE       Aoguste  Maquet 

TIME'S  HOUR  GLASS A.E.Carey 

LOVE  AND  A  TITLE   (and  edition) . .     Flowerdew 

THE  PRLNCE'S  PREDICAMENT R.A.Dillon 

CONSCIENCE  MONEY        ..         ..         Sidney  Warwick 

THE  BIDDEN  MASK        C.  Guise  Mitford 

WHEN  SATAN  RULED   (and  edition)    ..         ..         ...         ..        C.  Ranger-Gull 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  ZODIAC Anthony  Hamilton 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  ZENANA  May  Wynne 

BEB3ND  THE  VEDL  (2s.  net) Geo.  R.  Sims 

THE  LOVE  TIDES  Capt.  Frank  Shaw 

THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE    ..         ..A  Novel  founded  on  Shakesperc's  Comedy 
MACBETH A  Novel  founded  on  Shakespere's  Tragedy 


STANLEY  PAUL  &  CO.,  31   Essex  Street,   LONDON 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 


BOOKS  BY  NORMA  LORIMER 


ON    DESERT   Crown  Sv0t  cioth  giUt  6/_ 
ALTARS 

**  Miss  Lorimer,  with  characteristic  courage  and  delicacy, 
has  tackled  another  elemental  problem.  A  woman  finds 
that  the  only  way  to  get  the  husband  whom  she  adores  out 
of  the  swamps  of  the  Gold  Coast,  which  are  killing  him 
with  fever,  and  to  find  him  work  by  her  side  in  London,  is 
to  receive  the  visits  for  a  few  weeks  of  a  great  financier, 
who  is  passionately  fond  of  her,  but  whom  she  detests. 
The  husband  comes  home  and  recovers  his  health,  but 
eventually  discovers  what  his  wife  has  done.  The  torture 
of  the  husband  which  ensues  is  as  finely  treated  as  the 
earlier  torture  of  the  wife  while  she  was  resisting  and  finally 
allowing  herself  to  be  humiliated  by  the  importunities  of  the 
financier." 

BY  THE  WATERS  2E2&2W  , 

fully  illustrated,  12/6  net. 

OF  GERMANY        sec.odEdw.o 

"A    really   delightful    book.     We    cordially    commend    it." 

Western  Mail. 
"  No  more  charming,  interesting  and  informative  book  con- 
cerning the  old  towns  of  the  Black  Forest  could  be  perused." 

Dundee  Courier. 
"  Delightful,  practical  and  attractive." — Bookseller. 

A      WlrE      (JUl        Crown  Svo,  cloth  gilt,  6/- 

OF     EGYPT  Seventh  Edition 

"A  sound,  strong,  and  really  absorbing  story." 

Daily   Telegraph. 
M  The  book  is  extremely  interesting,   and,   apart  from  its 
literary  qualities   and   its   excellent   pictures  of   the   highly 
coloured  life  of  the  nearer  East,  it  gives  us  a  very  clear  idea 
of  the  social  conditions  of  Egypt  to-day." — Standard. 

"A  fascinating  novel." — Daily  Chronicle. 


LONDON:   STANLEY  PAUL  &  CO.,  31  Essex  Street,  Strand,  W.O. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bywatersofsicilyOOIoririch 


New  Edition  1914 


Vf, 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
S.  Giovanni  Degli  Eremiti       -        -        -Frontispiece 

To  faee  page 

11  It  looks  a  delightful  prison  now,"  she  said  -        12 

44  A  Sicilian  cart  " 44 

44  Once  a  fortified  monastery  ....  to-day  a 

wretched  shelter "  -        -        -        -  '     -        60 

41  One  old  woman,  her  head  encased  in  a  yellow 

'kerchief  " 88 

44  In  Sicily  everything  is  intense  "  -        -        -       100 

44  We    made    a    trip    up    the    famous    river 

Anapo  M 104 

44  One  little  cave  maiden  ....  had  brought 

Doris  a  bunch  of  flowers  M      -        -        -       124 

44  A  city  ....  set  upon  a  hill  three  thousand 

feet  in  height "        -        -        -        -  130 

44  Mighty  olive-trees  " 138 

A  Temple  at  Girgenti       -        -        -        -        -       164 

44  The    Temple    of    Castor    and     Pollux    at 

Girgenti"        ------       172 

44  Viewed  from  the  height  of  the  little  town  of 

Monreale  " 192 

44  The   Cappella  Palatina  ....  the  jewel  of 

Sicily  " 206 

44  The     most    curiously     Southern     thing     in 

Palermo  is  its  Saracenic  Cathedral  "     -      216 

44  The  cloister  of  Eremiti  "        -        -        -        -      220 

44  In  the  cathedral  of  Monreale "     -        -        -      244 


M3091.33 


BY  THE  WATERS   OF 
SICILY 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February  2nd,  1900. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

A  girl,  a  real  live  girl,  just  rid  of  her  teens,  I 
should  say,  has  taken  this  hotel  by  storm ! — a  girl 
of  dimples  and  magic  laughter,  who  has  brought  all 
the  way  from  England  the  freshness  of  springtime 
in  her  eyes  and  her  cool  cheeks !  The  ancient  visi- 
tors in  this  establishment  cannot  well  account  for 
the  appearance  in  their  midst  of  anything  so  full  of 
youth,  so  essentially  a  part  of  the  present  day, — the 
present  day  of  England,  I  mean,  for  here  in  Sicily 
the  present  day  has  nothing  in  common  with  the 
present  day  of  the  English-speaking  world. 

It  is  really  surprising  to  find  what  ancient  speci- 
mens of  humanity  travel  across  the  world  to  see 
ancient  Greek  remains.  But  indeed,  after  all,  it  is 
not  so  surprising,  perhaps;  for  youth  clings  to 
youth,  and  is  ever  living  in  the  expectant  future, 
while  old  age  is  always  looking  back.  Youth's 
"  unconquerable  hope,"  old  age's  winters  of 
regret ! 

I  cannot  imagine  this  girl  spending  one  single 
day  of  her  glorious  girlhood  seeking  after  the  tomb 


6  BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

of  Archimedes,  or  studying  the  original  plan  of  the 
five  cities  of  Syracuse.  The  present  is  much  too 
engrossing, — life  for  her  has  better  things  to  offer. 

When  she  took  her  seat  at  the  breakfast-table 
there  was  a  quickening  in  the  pulses  of  thirty  odd 
and  old  tourists  seated  there — just  a  little  breath  of 
emotion  amongst  them,  like  the  fluttering  of 
withered  leaves  when  the  summer  has  left  the  trees ; 
a  little  flutter  in  the  women's  hearts  for  their  lost 
springtime ;  a  little  flutter  of  regret  in  the  hearts  of 
the  men  for  the  old,  quick  blood  of  their  youth. 
The  many  "  Good-mornings  "  offered  to  the  girl 
by  the  busy  Germans  and  the  stolen  glances  from 
the  cautious  English  were  answered  with  a  smile, 
a  smile  which  suggested  something  between  the 
blinking  archness  of  a  kitten  and  the  rounded 
beauty  of  Donatello's  singing  cherubs.  She  seemed 
to  think  it  was  a  good  morning  and  a  very  pleasant 
thing  to  be  alive  and  young.  Her  pretty  skirts 
were  arranged  with  a  dignity  not  untouched  with 
vanity.  (Personal  vanity  has  become  almost  a  vir- 
tue in  my  eyes  since  I  have  been  cast  among  women 
who  study  Greek  remains  in  the  remains  of  German 
fashions.)  She  settled  herself  behind  the  would-be 
silver  coffee-pot  and  jug  of  steaming  goat's-milk. 

Two  old  eyes  from  behind  a  stale  copy  of  the 
Weekly  Times  watched  her  rounded  wrists  lift  the 
coffee-pot  and  milk-jug,  and  pour  the  contents  of 
the  two  vessels  into  her  cup.  She  looked  more  than 
ever  like  a  contented  kitten  as  she  licked  the  line  of 
milk  left  on  her  upper  lip. 

I  cannot  express  what  a  strong  atmosphere  of 
vigour  and  activity  the  girl  had  suddenly  brought 
into  the  room — a  feeling  that  something  still  grow- 
ing, a  thing  of  quick  emotion  and  ready  sympathy, 
had  come  among  us.  There  was  a  look  in  her  eyes 
which  seemed  to  say,  M  Is  there  nothing  younger 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY  7 

than  all  these — nothing  really  in  keeping  with  this 
big  white  southern  hotel?  Must  I  play  alone?" 
Her  slender  back  stiffened  as  if  in  self-defence,  as  a 
silent  protest  against  Time  and  its  effects.  At  her 
call  the  waiter  came  eagerly  forward.  Sicilians,  like 
all  Latin  races,  are  easily  influenced  by  beauty,  and 
it  was  many  months  since  this  poor  fellow  had 
attended  to  the  wants  of  any  such  feminine  fairness. 

February  is  the  German  season  in  Sicily,  March 
is  the  English  one,  and  in  April  and  May  America 
sends  over  her  fair  daughters  to  sample  the  island 
and  carry  away  specimens  of  its  antiquities.  There 
is  nothing  either  youthful  or  beautiful  in  the 
German  and  English  contingents  who  winter  in 
Sicily. 

The  willing  waiter  bowed. 

"  Fresh  eggs?"  she  asked  in  English,  not  even 
hesitating  for  a  second  in  her  choice  of  language  or 
attempting  poor  French. 

"  Yes,  very  good  eggs,"  the  man  answered  in 
pat  English. 

"  Then  bring  two;  but  be  quick,  for  the  day  is 
too  fine  to  delay  over  breakfast." 

Two  dim  blue  eyes  looked  up,  and  over  the  stale 
Times,  and  their  owner  reached  out  his  hand  for  a 
glass  dish  full  of  very  brown  honey,  and  handed  it 
to  the  girl,  who  looked  at  it  suspiciously. 

"  Thanks,  but  it's  not  very  inviting,"  she  said, 
with  questioning  eyes ;  "  it's  such  an  extraordinary 
colour." 

"  It's  pure  Hyblaean  honey;  we  never  eat  any- 
thing else  for  breakfast  here." 

The  voice  was  burdened  with  reproach,  and  the 
old  eyes  glared  at  the  girl. 

"  What  is  Hyblaean  honey?"  she  asked.  "  I 
never  heard  of  it  before." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  answered.     "  It  is  honey 


8  BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

made  famous  by  the  ancients;  it  is  mentioned  in 
the  classics,  and  extolled  for  its  beauty  and  purity." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said  meekly,  with  a  glint 
of  laughter  in  her  eyes,  "  but  I  prefer  honey  made 
by  the  bees  of  to-day.  I  will  taste  this,  however, 
and  give  it  a  chance.  Oh !  it's  horrid !"  she  said, 
making  a  wry  face ;  "  it  tastes  like  sweet  vinegar." 

"  You  prefer  honey  made  in  London,  where  the 
bees  are  fed  on  beer  and  sugar,  and  where  none  of 
them  have  ever  seen  a  flower  in  their  lives,  no 
doubt?" 

"  I  suppose  I  do,"  she  said.  "  Anyhow,  I 
don't  like  this ;  it  smells  like  pomade  and  tastes  like 
vinegar." 

66  The  smell  is  the  scent  of  the  asphodels,  that 
have  always  grown  on  the  Hyblsean  hills ;  both  the 
flower  and  the  honey  are  classical." 

"  Everything  is  classical  here,"  she  said,  with  a 
sigh.  M  I  can't  even  eat  a  modern  breakfast. 
Did  Socrates  mention  fresh  eggs ?     I  hope  he  did." 

When  the  fresh  eggs  at  last  arrived,  she  opened 
one  with  avidity.  That  she  enjoyed  her  breakfast 
there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt.  How  quickly 
she  munched  the  hard  crusts,  which  had  to  be 
induced  to  soften  in  most  of  the  coffee-cups  round 
the  table!  How  soon  the  small  pats  of  white 
goat's-butter  disappeared  from  her  plate!  A 
pleased  smile  hovered  round  her  mouth  while  she 
ate.  Suddenly  her  eyes  were  lifted  to  meet  my 
stolen  glance.  A  blush  that  reminded  you  of  the 
pink  spread  over  an  English  apple-orchard  in  April 
made  me  somehow  ashamed  of  myself. 

"  Two  eggs  look  greedy,  I  suppose?"  Her 
eyes  swept  the  honeyed  plates  of  the  economical 
Germans.  "  You  see,  I  can't  help  being  hungry, 
and  breakfast  at  home  was  such  a  nice  meal.  I 
must  get  gradually  accustomed  to  a  breakfast  of 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY  9 

coffee  and  rolls.  I  could  never  get  used  to  that 
honey!" 

"Why  try?"  I  said.  "  There  is  nothing  like 
making  a  good  beginning.  Look  after  your  break- 
fast ;  the  dinner  will  look  after  itself. " 

I  thought  I  caught  a  touch  of  sadness  in  her 
words  "  breakfast  at  home,"  and  my  mind  pictured 
a  fair  English  home,  approached,  I  know  not  how, 
by  green  lanes;  a  house  gay  with  young  people 
starting  a  new  day — a  day  full  of  the  excitement  of 
young  living.  The  girl  looked  as  if  she  had  played 
as  a  child  under  the  spreading  trees  which  give  an 
English  lawn  its  dignity.  She  was  no  product  of 
the  parched  South — the  South  which  knows  no 
green  hedges,  but  white  plastered  walls,  defended 
by  prickly  cacti,  or  some  blue-green  southern 
plant,  which  only  serves  to  increase  the  impression 
of  dryness,  and  does  not  refresh  the  eyes. 

The  girl  had  been  reared  in  a  land  where  young 
things  fatten  and  grow  kind  on  the  sweet  moisture 
of  air  and  earth.  Here,  in  the  South,  youth  is 
lean  and  pallid ;  here  there  is  no  lingering  'twixt 
bud  and  bloom,  no  wondering-time  of  sweet 
maidenhood.  On  the  same  stems  both  blossom 
and  fruit  are  to  be  seen  together. 

I  had  been  caught  looking,  and  yet  I  must  look 
again,  just  to  steal  one  more  memory  of  wild  roses 
in  an  English  hedge.  I  confess  myself  foolish 
about  this  English  girl,  but  she  is  the  first  link 
with  England  in  my  exile.  I  must  try  to  find  out 
her  name ;  I  hope  that  it  is  a  suitable  one. 

I  will  not  date  my  letters,  as  they  are  so  seldom 
posted  on  the  day  they  are  finished,  and  very  seldom 
written  all  in  one  day.  I  have  always  a  letter 
begun  to  you  lying  on  my  writing  pad,  and  it 
grows  in  snatches,  until  I  think  it  is  about  time  for 
you  to  have  another ;  then  it  is  finished  abruptly, 


10        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

and  hastily  addressed.  After  that,  it  may  or  may 
not  be  posted,  according  to  the  facchino's  feelings 
on  the  subject.  The  Jacchlno  in  a  Sicilian  hotel 
plays  a  much  more  important  part  than  the  Prime 
Minister  does  in  the  Italian  Cabinet. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Pouti,  Syracuse, 

February,  1900. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

It  is  astonishing  how  quickly  vegetation 
buds,  blooms,  and  fades  here.  You  know  it  is  only 
three  weeks  since  I  came  to  this  hotel  of  the 
wonderful  garden,  which  Theocritus  haunted  when 
Hiero  was  king;  and  everything  then,  owing  to 
the  long  drought,  was  very  backward.  The 
almond-trees  were  only  in  bud,  and  there  were 
practically  no  flowers  of  any  kind  to  be  seen.  To- 
day the  almond-trees  have  lost  their  pink  blossoms, 
for  a  strong  wind,  following  last  night's  brilliant 
sunset  (Syracuse  is  famous  for  its  sunsets),  has 
scattered  their  delicate  blossoms  like  a  fall  of  snow 
over  the  land,  and  now  their  spreading  branches 
are  covered  with  tender  leaves.  The  stocks,  too, 
have  sprung  into  being  with  magic  growth.  Why 
the  scent  of  a  stock  should  be  peculiarly  associated 
with  old  English  gardens  I  don't  know,  when  they 
grow  here  with  far  greater  beauty  and  luxury  than 
in  England ;  yet  every  evening,  when  their  scent 
steals  over  the  garden,  I  find  my  thoughts  leaving 
the  present,  and  an  English  garden,  not  a  Sicilian 
one,  is  before  my  eyes.  Whom  should  I  come 
across  to-day,  doing  a  little  botanising  on  her  own 
account,  but  the  English  girl,  her  young  brows 
puckered,  over  the  difficulty  of  distinguishing  the 
famous  asphodel.  Two  weeks  ago  there  was  not 
even  a  trace  of  their  slender  green  shafts ;  to-day 

I  thanked  beneficent  Nature  for  all  her  southern 

11 


12        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

wonders,  for  I  was  able  to  point  out  to  her  a  patch 
of  these  delicate  pink  hyacinth-like  blossoms, 
growing  apparently  out  of  a  bare  white  rock. 
With  charming  candour  she  confessed  that  the 
classical  flower  had  no  deeper  associations  for  her 
mind  than  the  name  of  one  of  Rhoda  Broughton's 
early  novels,  but  that  she  had  determined  to  see 
the  flower  itself,  after  the  general's  remarks  upon 
the  honey. 

I  must  post  myself  up  in  a  few  classical  legends, 
the  sort  women  like,  for  she  has  taken  it  into  her 
head  that  I  can  tell  her  all  about  this  wonderful 
Syracuse.  I  can  see  that  I  am  to  be  her  source  of 
information.  To-day  she  was  persistent  in  her 
desire  to  know  something  about  the  lives  led  * y 
the  seven  thousand  Athenian  prisoners  in  the 
ancient  quarries  which  form  the  crypt,  as  it  were, 
of  this  mysterious  garden. 

I  told  her  the  main  facts  of  the  case  :  how  the 
ancient  Syracusans  used  their  latomias,  the 
enormous  quarries,  out  of  which  the  white  stones 
for  the  building  of  their  five  cities  had  been  hewn, 
as  a  prison  in  which  to  keep  their  Athenian  cap- 
tives after  Demosthenes  had  surrendered.  But, 
woman-like,  she  wished  for  more  practical  details. 
Couldn't  I  tell  her  how  they  lived — if  they  had 
sentries  and  guards  stationed  up  above,  on  the 
edge  of  the  precipice  (where  we  ourselves  were 
standing),  to  watch  that  none  of  the  prisoners  tried 
to  scale  the  white  walls  ?     She  said : 

"  Surely  a  man  desperate  for  freedom  would 
venture  to  climb  these  latomias  by  swinging  him- 
self up  and  onwards  with  the  help  of  the  various 
plants  which  hang  from  the  cliffs !" 

Curtains  of  ivy,  strong  and  tree-like  in  growth, 
mingled  here  and  there  with  shimmering  vermouth- 
bushes  and  the  weird  limbs  of  the  prickly  pears, 


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BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        18 

which  take  such  tortured  shapes  in  their  old  age, 
covered  the  dazzling  white  cliffs  of  the  quarries. 
I  reminded  her,  however,  that  probably  all  this 
rich  green,  which  makes  this  ancient  prison  a 
modern  Garden  of  Eden,  was  not  there  in  the  days 
when  the  precipices  confined  the  prisoners. 

"  It  looks  a  delightful  prison  now,"  she  said, 
bending  her  well-shaped  neck  over  the  parapet 
wall,  which  protects  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 
"  Fancy  a  prison  with  orange  and  almond  and 
citron-trees  growing  in  its  yard!  What  a  cool 
shade  they  make  as  you  look  down  upon  them! 
Everything  up  here  is  so  white  and  dazzling.  Can 
you  smell  the  scent  of  the  violets  ?  A  little  breath 
of  them  came  up  to  me  just  now;  they  are  like 
carpets  spread  beneath  the  orange-groves." 

I  pointed  out  an  early  orange-tree  in  full  bloom. 

II  Was  there  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage, 
do  you  think,  amongst  the  prisoners?  Did  the 
Greek  women  ever  follow  their  men  into  battle? 
I  wonder,"  she  went  on,  "if  the  fine  ladies  of 
Syracuse  used  to  come  and  look  down  upon  the 
prisoners  just  as  we  are  peering  down  now  ?  When 
the  poor  captives  turned  up  their  eyes  to  the  sky 
and  to  freedom,  and  then  looked  at  these  wonderful 
rocks,  so  impossibly  high,  they  must  have  felt  that 
the  blue  heavens  were  mocking  them.  How  were 
they  fed  ? — like  the  beasts  in  the  Zoo  at  home  ?  or 
had  they  a  village  within  the  high  walls,  and  shops, 
and  the  inevitable  flocks  of  goats?" 

I  found  it  difficult  to  answer  all  these  questions, 
though  I  was  able  to  tell  her  what  history  has  told 
us, — that  the  prisoners  had  in  time  to  be  removed 
from  the  quarries,  but  that  the  greater  portion  of 
them  dragged  out  a  weary  existence  there  for  eight 
months.  There  is  a  sentimental  tale  told  that  not 
a  few  of  them  were  set  at  liberty  on  account  of  their 


14        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

skill  in  reciting  the  verses  of  Euripides ;  but  I  think 
the  truth  is  that,  the  sanitary  arrangements  being 
nil,  a  pestilence  broke  out  in  their  midst,  and  the 
natives  of  Syracuse  became  alarmed.  Knowing 
that  the  modern  Sicilian  is  not  what  we  should 
consider  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  sanitation 
generally,  we  agreed  that  things  must  have  been 
pretty  bad  in  that  way  before  they  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  public. 

Just  to  give  you  some  idea  of  this  wonderful 
garden,  I  must  try  to  describe  it.  It  has  been 
made  by  carting  soil  and  filling  up  the  crevices  in 
the  flat,  rock  surface  which  winds  round  the  top  of 
the  precipice.  There  are,  of  course,  many  curves 
and  turns  in  the  outline  of  the  garden,  and  in  no 
place  is  there  any  flat  piece  of  rock  of  a  dignified 
size,  for  a  precipice  invariably  breaks  up  the 
cleverly  designed  landscape.  Still,  your  passage 
through  the  rock-garden  is  never  stopped,  for  if 
you  follow  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  which  is 
guarded  by  a  low  wall  out  of  which  pours  a  flood  of 
snapdragons  (b6cca-di-Le6ne,  as  the  Sicilians  call 
them),  wild  stocks,  and  the  host  of  other  Sicilian 
plants  which  enjoy  dry  food,  you  will  presently 
come  to  a  little  black  bridge  which  spans  the  preci- 
pice at  some  narrow  neck.  As  you  stand  upon 
one  of  these  little  bridges  you  cannot  help  shudder- 
ing, for  the  day  will  probably  come  when  the  wood 
will  rot — and  Sicilians  are  casual  about  such 
matters !  But  it  is  from  these  black  bridges  that 
yon  can  best  grasp  the  wonderful  beauty  and 
mystery  of  the  place.  Enough  soil  has  been 
lovingly  carted  to  this  rock-garden  to  allow  almond- 
trees  and  other  southern  fruit-trees,  including  the 
ntspoli,  to  find  depths  for  their  roots. 

The  diligence  of  a  Syracusan  gardener  does 
wonders;  as  the  English  girl  says,  a  Sicilian  can 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        15 

make  a  garden  out  of  a  kerosene-tin.  The  garden 
is  always  gay  with  flowers,  chief  among  which  are 
the  scarlet  geranium  and  deep  blue  iris;  their 
brilliance  of  colour  contrasts  markedly  with  the 
white  rock  and  the  deep  green,  far  down  in  the 
depths  of  the  quarries. 

The  gardener  is  a  good-looking  fellow,  who  seems 
to  live  on  excellent  terms  with  Nature,  and  to 
understand  her  wants  and  peculiarities.  From  my 
window  in  the  hotel,  which  is  situated  on  the 
highest  piece  of  ground  on  the  quarry  edge,  you 
can  always  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  blue  cotton  blouse 
showing  through  the  early  foliage  of  the  almond- 
trees.  He  seems  to  spend  his  days  carrying  water 
or  soil  to  some  fresh  bed  he  has  made  out  of  a 
neglected  promontory.  His  blue  blouse  is  so 
exactly  the  same  colour  as  the  sea,  which  forms  a 
background  to  all  things  Syracusan,  that  he  looks 
as  though  he  had  been  dropped  into  its  blue  depths 
and  caught  its  colour. 

The  English  girl  greatly  admires  the  colour  of 
his  blouse,  and,  I  think,  the  man  himself,  although 
she  declares  it  is  his  untiring  industry.  "  I  shall 
make  my  gardener  wear  a  blue  blouse,"  she  said. 
11  He  will  give  a  bit  of  colour  to  the  garden  in  the 
long,  long  winter." 

There  is  a  German  staying  here  who  wears  a 
black  mackintosh  :  most  Germans  do  wear  mackin- 
toshes away  from  home, — it  saves  carrying  two 
coats ;  and  the  Germans  are  masters  in  the  economy 
of  travel, — but  this  particular  German  has  never 
been  seen  out  of  his.  He  eats  in  it,  and  it  is  now 
agreed  that  he  sleeps  in  it ;  so  that  the  mackintosh 
serves  as  a  topcoat,  an  ordinary  coat,  a  nightshirt, 
and  what  else  only  he  himself  can  tell ! 

You  made  me  promise  that  I  was  not  to  devote 
any  of  the  time  which  I  am  to  give  to  you  in  Sicily 


16        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

by  answering  your  letters  in  detail.  But  I  must 
tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  you  are  really  better. 
I  constantly  think  how  strange  it  is  that  you,  to 
whom  fresh  air  and  sunshine  are  so  necessary, 
should  be  a  prisoner  in  London  this  winter,  and 
that  I,  of  all  persons,  should  be  here.  As  soon  as 
there  is  no  risk  attendant  on  the  journey,  do 
endeavour  to  get  to  Sicily.  London  never  suited 
you.  In  the  meantime  I  will  try  to  transplant 
your  spirit  as  often  as  I  can  from  your  dull  little 
room  in  William  Street  to  Syracuse.  I  write  to 
you  in  snatches  throughout  the  day,  and  often  far 
into  the  night,  so  I  am  constantly  with  you,  dear 
Louise ;  and  my  hope  is,  that  while  you  are  reading 
my  letters  you  are  with  me  in  the  magic  South. 
Just  tell  me  if  my  letters  bring  a  little  sunshine 
into  your  room,  and  if  they  are  as  womanish  as  you 
wish  them  to  be.  I  hoard  up  every  item  which  I 
think  will  interest  you,  and  will  refrain  from  dis- 
cussing foreign  views  on  our  policy  in  South  Africa. 
I  always  post  any  letters  which  require  a  direct 
answer  under  separate  cover. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,  igoo. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

I  am  afraid  I  make  very  little  use  of  my 
time  here.  So  far  as  methodical  sight-seeing  is 
concerned,  I  am  idle.  One  can,  I  admit,  sit  in  a 
garden  in  Surrey,  and  spend  the  remainder  of  one's 
days  in  romancing  over  an  English  girl  with  a 
pretty  face,  but  not,  I  say,  in  such  a  garden  as  this, 
and  not  in  brilliant  sunshine  on  a  February  after- 
noon. Nor  can  I,  from  my  garden  at  home,  see  a 
city,  once  the  most  famous  in  the  world,  stretched 
out  in  a  blue  sea  which  bounds  the  horizon  of  the 
garden.  The  city  of  Syracuse  looks  so  safe  and 
defiant,  encircled  by  its  antique  walls,  which  have 
their  foundations  in  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  If 
you  look  at  it  in  the  morning  it  sparkles  like  a  city 
carved  out  of  white  marble,  so  fair  and  clean  it  is, 
with  no  trace  of  smoke  rising  from  the  flat  roofs 
to  dim  the  blue  overhead.  This  absence  of  smoke 
in  a  large  city  seems  to  suggest,  as  you  look  at  it 
from  a  distance,  an  unreality.  Surely  no  starving 
figures  walk  about  the  cold  narrow  streets  which 
one  knows  lie  within  these  sea-girt  walls ! 
Stretched  out,  a  long  white  neck  in  the  blue  waters, 
the  white  city  seems  as  if  it  had  been  part  of  the 
natural  landscape  ever  since  Sicily  began.  It  is 
a  dream-city,  too  good  to  be  true.  By  day  a  tide- 
less  sea  laps  its  ancient  walls;  and  when  night 

17 


18        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

comes  and  darkness  drops  like  a  curtain  on  its  fair- 
ness, the  ramparts  twinkle  with  a  thousand  lights. 
From  the  garden  every  evening  I  watch  these  city 
lights  flash  out  upon  the  water,  quickly,  one  after 
the  other,  like  early  evening  stars;  and  soon  the 
phantom  Syracuse  lies  like  a  golden  snake  in  the 
deep  blue  of  night,  sky,  and  sea. 

Have  I  told  you  that  between  this  garden  of  rich 
southern  scent  and  sound  and  the  sea  there  is  one 
field's  width  of  land  and  a  fine  white  Government 
road  ?  The  road  is  a  favourite  drill-ground  of  some 
poor  young  army  recruits,  who  make  a  pretence  of 
marching  out  from  the  city  to  this  point  every 
morning  and  evening.  At  the  same  spot  they 
always  halt  and  go  through  their  drill.  In  the 
evening  the  same  place  is  chosen  by  some  monks 
from  the  monastery  of  San  Giovanni  for  their 
evening  walk.  Their  brown-clad  figures,  tied  with 
white  girdles,  stand  out  strangely  against  the  sky- 
line as  they  slowly  wander  by  the  edge  of  the  cliffs, 
watching  the  raw  recruits  go  through  their  drill. 
In  Sicily,  as  in  Italy,  it  is  always  the  Army  versus 
the  Church.  From  the  windows  of  ancient  monas- 
teries you  now  see  a  soldier's  uniform,  not  a  monk's 
hood ;  and  while  you  linger  in  the  cloisters,  instead 
of  the  chanting  of  the  brothers  at  evensong,  you 
hear  the  everlasting  bugle-march  of  Italy. 

Yesterday,  in  the  field  which  lies  between  the 
white  road  and  the  sea  on  ore  side  and  this  garden 
on  the  other,  quiet  oxen  were  ploughing,  while  a 
woman  walked  behind-,  sowing  the  grain.  There 
was  little  in  choice  of  dignity  between  the  grey 
oxen,  with  their  high  wooden  collars  and  their  slow, 
continuous  tread,  and  the  woman,  whose  bright 
green  head-towel  made  a  pleasant  note  of  colour. 
The  wide  sweep  of  her  arm  was  free  and  strong. 
The  scene  was  like  one  of  Millet's  pictures.     To- 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        19 

day,  however,  the  idyll  is  broken,  there  is  a  stir  and 
excitement  in  the  field  :  the  labourers  have  dis- 
covered, while  ploughing,  some  ancient  tombs ;  so 
the  director  of  the  museum  has  arrived  with  some 
excavators. 

I  hope  the  tombs  will  prove  worthy  of  having 
disturbed  so  pretty  a  pastoral  study.  Nothing 
later  than  Pagan  will  suffice  me,  for  Syracuse  is  so 
well  off  for  early  Christian  tombs.  Now,  surely, 
if  I  can  see  all  this  from  my  garden,  I  may  be 
excused  going  farther? 

The  old  general  went  out  for  a  walk  with  the 
English  girl  to-day ;  he  often  monopolises  her  for 
hours,  recounting  the  romances  and  incidents  of 
his  early  days.  It  is  rather  amusing  the  way  he 
classes  himself  with  me  in  point  of  age;  he  talks 
about  "  we  two  old  fogies,"  when  as  a  matter  of 
fact  there  is  nearly  twenty  years'  difference  be- 
tween us !  Doris  (that  is  the  English  girl's  name) 
came  to  me  in  great  urgency,  asking  me  to  write 
out  the  romance  the  general  had  been  telling  her. 
It  was  merely  the  oft-told  story  of  an  old  man's 
love  for  a  beautiful  girl. 

The  girl  was  romantic  and  a  bit  of  a  hero- 
worshipper,  as  all  women  are,  God  bless  them ! 
The  old  man's  iron  cross  and  the  deeds  of  his  hero- 
ism appealed  to  her  imaginative  nature.  She  was 
visiting  an  uncle  out  in  India,  and  was  thrown  into 
daily  companionship  with  the  illustrious  soldier. 
The  old  man  behaved  as  old  age  is  often  tempted 
to  do  :  he  mistook  the  young  girl's  admiration  and 
esteem  for  love ;  he  proposed  to  her,  and  she 
accepted  him,  nothing  disturbing  the  happiness  of 
their  engagement  until  the  arrival  in  their  midst  of 
a  young  fellow  whom  the  old  soldier  had  adopted. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  brother  officer  who  had  fallen 
at  his  side  in  battle,  leaving  a  young  wife  with  an 


20        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

unborn  child.  The  news  of  the  husband's  death 
hastened  the  birth  of  the  child  and  killed  the  wife. 
The  baby  was  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  father's  old 
friend. 

Youth  is  magnetic  and  attracts  youth  :  the  girl 
and  the  old  man's  adopted  son  fell  in  love  with 
each  other.  The  old  man  saw  their  love  and  re- 
signed the  girl,  making  a  pretence  of  his  own 
inability  to  bring  his  mind  to  matrimony. 

The  old  general  who  told  her  this  romance  fought 
with  Garibaldi,  and  Doris  is  immensely  taken  with 
a  picture  of  him  in  the  Garibaldi  uniform  with  the 
fine  wide  sash  and  scarlet  tunic. 

Tobacco  here  is  vile,  and  what  I  brought  with  me 
is  almost  finished.  I  know  that  there  is  a  brand 
sold  in  Naples  which  is  moderately  good, — the  old 
general  is  getting  some.  I  mean  to  try  it ;  but  if 
it  is  not  to  my  taste  I  will  ask  you  to  send  me  out 
some,  upon  which,  however,  I  shall  have  to  pay  a 
most  exorbitant  duty — but  I  cannot  manage  the 
rank  stuff  they  sell  here. 

Your  letters  are  invariably  over-weight,  and  I 
have  to  pay  the  extra  postage.  I  wish  you  would 
be  careful  in  the  weight  of  your  paper,  but  do  not 
curtail  the  quantity  of  your  letters. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,  igoo. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

Your  letter  about  the  latomia  as  the 
quarries  are  called,  was  capital ;  it  gave  me  the  key 
of  many  things  which  I  had  forgotten.  Doris  and 
I  had  a  long  walk  in  their  green  depths  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  managed  to  use  some  of  your  information 
as  if  it  were  first-hand.  You  asked  me  to  tell  you 
what  the  lentisk  is  like,  which  J.  A.  Symonds 
mentions  in  his  charming  essay  on  these  ancient 
quarries.  It  is  a  little  shrub,  not  unlike  barberry 
in  appearance,  which  now  and  again  shows  pleasant 
tints  of  colour ;  compared,  however,  to  the  silver 
shimmering  vermouth,  which  also  kindly  decorates 
the  cliffs,  it  is  nothing  in  point  of  beauty.  The 
word  lentisk  makes  a  fine  sound  in  essay- writing. 
Mr.  Symonds  could  not  have  derived  much  pleasure 
from  looking  at  the  real  plant.  The  vermouth  is 
like  the  English  southern- wood  glorified.  All  old 
English  plants  and  flowers  growing  here  are  glori- 
fied ;  they  are  so  rich  is  size  and  brilliance  of  colour. 
The  vermouth  plant  is  sensitive  of  the  least  breath 
of  wind;  when  it  moves,  a  thousand  pale  moon- 
light shades  float  over  it.  In  some  parts,  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach,  it  has  the  monoply  of  the  white 
walls;  it  sways  and  moves,  like  a  sea  swollen  at 
high-tide. 

You  asked  if  the  quarries  are  used  for  any 
practical  purposes  to-day.  In  one  of  the  deep  dry 
caves   I   found   crab-baskets   stored,    and   an   old 

21 


22        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Sicilian  spending  his  days  there  making  new  ones 
and  mending  broken  ones.  A  very  fine  picture  he 
looked,  standing  in  the  shadow,  in  his  blue  stocking- 
cap  and  sunburnt  clothes,  which  had  taken  rich 
tones  in  their  old  age,  worn  under  fierce  suns. 
Close  to  where  he  was  seated  (almost  inside  a  crab- 
pot  of  huge  dimensions)  a  fine  stretch  of  even  white 
wall  is  utilised  as  a  rope-factory.  A  child  of  seven 
or  eight  years  was  busy  making  the  ropes ;  his  little 
face  was  an  example  of  southern  patience  and  un- 
complaining submission  to  the  laws  of  fate.  I  was 
touched  by  the  child-philosopher.  Birds  were 
twittering  in  the  curtain  of  ivy,  hanging  from  the 
cliffs.  There  were  nests,  certainly,  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  little  figure,  who  walked  back- 
ward and  forward  with  the  precise  tread  of  a  sentry 
on  guard,  moistening  the  rope  or  freeing  the 
strands  from  knots,  I  don't  know  which.  Another 
old  man,  who  in  point  of  age  was  as  far  past  work 
as  the  child  was  too  young  for  it,  was  lying  in  the 
sun  watching  this  large-eyed  breadwinner  make  the 
ropes.  Familiarity,  I  suppose,  breeds  contempt 
even  for  such  things  as  the  oranges  and  lemons, 
which  hung  golden  and  ripe  from  the  tree  near  the 
old  man  and  the  child,  for  no  longing  eyes  were 
turned  to  them ;  and  when,  later  on,  the  little  rope- 
maker  ceased  his  work  for  his  midday  siesta  and 
lunch,  he  shared  with  his  aged  parent  a  piece  of 
cool  fennel  and  a  hunch  of  brown  bread,  and  drank 
his  share  of  strong  new  wine  from  the  grape-stained 
gourd  like  a  man.  I  expected  and  hoped  to  see 
him  pull  down  some  oranges  from  a  low  tree  near 
him,  but  his  tastes  did  not  incline  that  way; 
instead,  he  stretched  himself  out  on  his  seven-year- 
old  spine,  raised  his  patient  young  face  to  the  deep 
blue  overhead,  and  slept. 

This  particular  latomia,  which  is  rented  from  the 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        28 

Italian  Government  by  Madame  Politi,  is  a  verit- 
able aviary  of  wild  birds;  they  sing  and  nest  here 
in  a  "  peace  which  passeth  all  understanding  "  to 
their  less  fortunate  brethren.  One  of  our  hostess's 
strictest  rules,  which  she  enforces  in  a  way  not 
usual  in  casual  Italy,  is  the  protection  of  all  living 
things  in  her  garden  and  latomia.  No  cat  prowls 
here  to  disturb  the  domestic  calm  of  the  gold- 
finches' or  yellow  canaries'  home-life;  the  very 
walls  seem  alive  with  the  chirping  and  twittering 
of  thousands  of  busy  birds.  Stonechats  are  natur- 
ally very  much  to  the  fore  in  the  bird  society  of  the 
latomia,  the  vast  wall  affording  a  safe  shelter  for 
all  the  feathered  kinds  who  find  their  way  there. 
In  Sicily  generally  the  slaughter  of  wild  birds  is 
heartrending;  their  sweetest  songsters  are  not 
spared,  a  lark  adds  a  festa-day  dainty  to  the  work- 
a-day  pot  of  macaroni. 

Doris  and  I  did  a  little  sight-seeing  to-day,  of 
which  we  are  very  proud.  We  "  did,"  as  the 
tourists  say,  the  Greek  theatre,  which  is  only  half 
an  hour's  walk  from  the  hotel,  and  if  you  do  not 
object  to  a  rough  journey  you  can  go  most  of  the 
way  over  the  ancient  city  of  Achradina,  which 
which  looks  like  a  sea  of  flat  rocks.  As  you  know, 
the  Greeks,  when  they  desired  to  build  themselves 
a  city,  dig  a  tomb,  cut  a  road,  make  a  theatre,  or 
raise  a  fine  fortress,  went  to  the  mother  rock. 
They  met  Nature  half-way ;  they  saw  that  she  was 
willing  to  supply  their  needs, — they  were  the 
master-hewers  of  rock,  these  Greek  builders;  so 
they  quickly  supplied  their  city  with  a  theatre 
which  would  hold  twenty-four  thousand  people, 
without  borrowing  one  cart-load  of  stone  from  half 
a  mile  distant,  or  touching  it  with  mortar;  these 
twenty-four  thousand  were  provided  with  luxurious 
seats  hewn  out  of  the  virgin  rock.     A  theatre,  not 


24        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

built  up  in  a  crowded  city,  but  dug  out,  open  to 
the  clear  blue  sky — a  glorious  idea  for  a  glorious 
climate ! 

The  theatre  is  wonderful,  so  perfect,  so  undis- 
turbed from  the  fifth  century  before  the  Christian 
era.  Doris  says  it  is  impossible  to  realise  that  we 
are  actually  sitting  in  the  same  seats  as  men  and 
women  sat  in  when  they  enjoyed  plays  and  dramas, 
acted  four  hundred  years  before  the  world  heard  of 
the  great  life  and  tragedy  of  Jesus  Christ.  She 
will  not  accept  the  theory  that  the  Greek  actors 
wore  masks  and  moved  about  the  stage  on  stilts, 
and  that  women  never  took  part  in  Greek  plays; 
this  last  certainly  would  rob  the  drama  of  the 
salt  which  is  the  better  half  of  its  flavour  now- 
adays. 

Whilst  we  were  "  doing  "  the  theatre,  the  Ger- 
man, in  his  mackintosh,  studying  his  Baedeker 
bound  in  brown  paper,  seated  himself  on  one  of  the 
white-rock  seats  directly  facing  the  stage.  He 
looked  like  some  evil  black  bird  which  had  suddenly 
alighted  on  the  scene,  and  I  can  assure  you  he 
contrived  to  spoil  the  idyllic  beauty  of  the  place  for 
us.  He  used  the  theatre  merely  as  an  illustration 
and  verification  of  his  guide-book ;  just  glanced  at 
it  occasionally  through  his  German  smoke-goggles 
— which,  by  the  way,  are  necessary  in  a  sun  like 
this,  when  the  near  world  is  composed  of  flat  white 
rocks,  while  the  sky  and  sea  are  still  spring-blue. 
When  the  really  warm  weather  comes,  the  blue 
will  turn  to  a  leaden  grey.  An  hour  later  we 
passed  the  theatre  on  our  return  journey;  the 
mackintosh  made  in  Germany  was  still  seated  in 
that  immense,  silent,  sunken  theatre,  reading  its 
Baedeker. 

"  I  must  do  the  correct  thing  too,"  said  Doris, 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        25 

"  and  sit  in  that  fine  chair  with  the  carved  arms. 
Who,  did  you  say,  used  to  occupy  that  chair?" 

I  told  her  that  it  was  the  seat  reserved  for  Diony- 
sius  when  he  came  to  see  his  dramas  represented ; 
not  the  author's  throne  of  honour,  but  the  throne 
of  a  tyrant  who  is  quite  sufficiently  interesting, 
apart  from  the  fact  that  he  was  an  author.  She 
ran  down  the  flat  seats  until  she  reached  what  we 
should  call  the  front  row  of  the  dress-circle,  and 
without  more  ado  seated  herself  on  the  white 
marble  chair. 

II  Come  and  sit  beside  me,"  she  called  out, 
u  and  tell  me  all  about  it ;  no,  not  out  of  Baedeker 
— I'm  sick  and  tired  of  Baedeker's  Epoca  Greca  : 
out  of  your  own  head — I  won't  know  the 
mistakes." 

She  put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  left  it  there 
with  the  confidence  youth  places  in  middle  age. 
After  sitting  in  silence  together  for  some  time,  she 
said : 

"  What  a  splendid  idea  the  primitive  one  was  to 
dig  out  a  theatre,  not  build  one  up !  But  I  like 
the  cheap  top  seats  best,  don't  you?  The  view  is 
so  much  finer.  Down  here  we  lose  all  the  back- 
ground of  the  blue  sea  and  Syracuse  lying  basking 
in  the  sun.     We  must  pay  a  visit  to  the  city  soon." 

"  To-morrow,  if  you  like,"  I  said :  "lam 
agreeable." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh.  "  lam  half  afraid  to  go," 
she  said.  "  Looking  at  it  from  here  it  is  the  fairest 
thing  I  have  ever  seen,  a  sort  of  dream-city.  I 
know  the  pleasant  visions  will  never  be  the  same 
again  when  I  have  seen  the  poverty  and  darkness 
in  its  streets." 

We  had  risen,  and  were  ascending  the  crescent  of 
flat  seats. 


26        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  Am  I  going  too  quickly  for  you?"  she  asked, 
as  she  sprang  from  seat  to  seat. 

I  did  not  answer :  it  was  the  second  time  this 
afternoon  she  had  unconsciously  reminded  me  of 
what  I  am  a  fool  ever  to  forget.  When  we  reached 
the  highest  seat,  she  declared  again  that  she  would 
have  always  chosen  to  sit  with  the  "people." 

"  But  you  would  not  have  been  able  to  hear  what 
the  actors  said,"  I  rejoined.  "  Just  look  at  the 
immense  size  of  the  theatre  :  the  German  in  his 
mackintosh  looks  quite  small  from  here!" 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  feels  it,"  she  said,  and 
smiled  in  a  way  which  showed  her  best  dimple  and 
made  me  feel  a  rare  old  fool. 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  have  minded  much  if  I 
hadn't  heard.  Greek  plays  must  have  been  awfully 
dull.  Up  here,  when  you  got  bored,  you  could 
always  look  at  the  ships  in  the  harbour,  and  see 
what  was  going  on  in  the  town." 

"  It  was  here,  from  these  very  seats,"  I  said, 
"  that  the  ancient  Syracusans  watched  the  famous 
fight  at  sea  between  the  fleets  of  Athens  and  their 
city." 

"  I  can't  imagine  those  famous  fleets,"  she  said, 
"  if  they  were  only  galleys  rowed  by  oars.  I'm 
really  too  modern  to  throw  my  imagination  so  far 
back  into  the  past.  How  much  of  our  story  have 
you  written?"  she  asked  in  the  same  breath.  "  I 
think  I  am  tired  of  Epoca  Greca  for  to-day.  Have 
you  ^got  it  in  your  pocket  ?  Read  it  to  me  while  I 
try  to  take  in  the  beauty  of  this  wonderful  world. 
My  ignorance  of  all  things  classical  is  positively 
bewildering;  beyond  the  mere  beauty  of  the 
scenery,  which  is  amazing  enough  to  northern  eyes, 
seen  for  the  first  time,  everything  has  a  thousand 
meanings  which  I  don't  understand.  It  is  like 
throwing  pearls  before  swine,  for  I  can  only  see  the 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        27 

things  and  feel  their  beauty  with  purely  modern 
eyes.  Just  think  of  the  poor  scholars  who  are 
steeped  in  classics,  who  know  the  past,  and  under- 
stand it  much  better  than  they  do  their  own  day — 
think  that  they  must  live  and  die,  only  imagining 
all  those  scenes  that  ignorant  I  am  living  amongst 
and  taking  for  granted  every  day !" 

"  I  believe  those  students  prefer  studying  Greek 
remains  and  the  footprints  of  the  Sikelians  is,  Sicily, 
under  the  cover  of  the  British  Museum  roof ;  they 
would  not  be  moved  by  the  blue  sky  or  the  southern 
atmosphere  as  you  are ;  they  search  after  facts,  you 
illuminate  facts  with  sentiment." 

11  Don't  try  to  excuse  my  ignorance,"  she  said ; 
"  it's  disgraceful  the  way  English  girls  are  edu- 
cated, except  the  ones  who  aren't  like  me." 

"  Don't  bother  your  head  about  such  things," 
I  said. 

She  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"  Leave  it  all  to  Germans  in  mackintoshes  and 
to  old  men  like  myself." 

"  You  prefer  a  pretty  fool,"  she  said,  "  to  an 
intelligent  woman  ? ' ' 

u  Intelligence  has  nothing  to  do  with  book  learn- 
ing," I  said.  "  Some  of  the  most  intelligent  men 
I  have  ever  known  have  not  been  able  to  read." 

*  But  I  can  read — that's  just  what's  the  matter 
with  my  education.  I  can  read,  but  I  only  enjoy 
reading  modern  fiction.  Reading  has  killed  my 
power  for  either  original  thought,  or  the  best 
thoughts  of  other  people.  Children  lose  most  of 
their  originality  and  quaint  ideas  after  they  have 
learned  to  read." 

"  Will  you  not  permit  your  children  to  read?" 
I  asked. 

%  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,"  she  replied. 
w  With  reading  comes  the  desire  to  read;  with 


28        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

womanhood  comes  the  desire  to  peep  further  into 
human  nature.  You  think  that  novels  teach  you 
what  you  want  to  know ;  you  read,  and  read,  and 
read,  until  real  life  becomes  awfully  tame  compared 
with  books.  Then  you  grow  old  enough  to  know 
that  novels  are  not  true.  Ah,  that  is  a  horrible 
time !  You  are  thrown  back  upon  yourself,  your 
mind  has  lost  its  power  of  original  thought,  it  is 
saturated  in  the  sentiment  of  modern  fiction,  and 
too  disturbed  and  unbalanced  to  study  deeper 
things.  A  thousand  girls  will  tell  you  the  same 
thing." 

"  And  yet,  after  all  this,  you  would  have  me  try 
my  hand  at  writing  a  love  romance;  you  are 
actually  waiting  for  me  to  begin." 

"  It's  like  morphia,"  she  said ;  "  you  must  break 
the  patient  gradually  of  the  habit.  I  haven't 
looked  at  a  novel  since  I  came  here." 

When  I  had  finished  reading  my  poor  attempt, 
there  was  silence  between  us  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Will  it  do?"  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  hadn't  pictured 
the  girl  like  that ;  she's  too — too  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't 
know  how  to  express  it — too  English,  too  un- 
romantic,  not  individual  enough." 

"  I  think  probably  that  it  was  her  naturalness 
and  her  English  fairness  that  were  her  chief  charms 
in  the  soldier's  eyes." 

u  I  pictured  her "     She  paused  to  think, 

with  dark  and  mysterious-looking  eyes.  "  Not 
such  a  girlish  girl  as  that.  The  sort  of  girl  who  is 
always  a  woman — a  woman  with  a  temperament,  I 
think  novelists  say." 

"  But  this  one  was  to  be  a  true  girl ;  I  thought 
you  had  enough  of  the  conventional  heroine  in 
fiction." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        29 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said  doubtfully;  "  but  I  can't 
imagine  a  clever  man,  a  man  who  had  done  so  much 
and  seen  so  much,  falling  in  love  with  a  simple, 
ordinary  sort  of  a  girl  like  that.  I  like  the  old 
man ;  he's  far,  far  too  good  for  her." 

"  Nothing  is  too  good  for  youth,"  I  said ;  **  it  is 
the  magic  of  the  world." 

"  If  it  is,"  she  said,  "  it  is  too  cruel  that  you 
cannot  realise  the  value  of  what  you  possess  for 
such  a  short  time  in  life." 

u  The  very  fact  of  realising  it  would  be  to  tinge 
its  gold  with  grey.  Youth  takes  everything  for 
granted  ;  it  has  not  learnt  to  bow  the  knee.  When 
reverence,  gratitude,  and  meekness  creep  in,  youth 
with  its  golden  wings  takes  flight." 

"  Why  is  youth  so  charming,  then,  if  it  knows 
none  of  these  fine  virtues?" 

M  Charm  never  waits  for  cold  description  or 
analysis,"  I  said.  "  What  you  can  describe  does 
not  charm ;  what  charms  comes  under  the  heading 
of  no  moral  virtue." 

As  we  walked  home  I  remarked  that  the  romance 
was  utterly  unnatural. 

u  Why  so?"  she  said.  "  I  think  the  girl  was  a 
fool  to  choose  the  young  man ;  he  was  totally  un- 
interesting, just  like  every  other  University  thing 
in  well-cut  clothes." 

Call  me  a  fool,  if  you  like,  Louise,  but  her  last 
remark  pleased  me  mightily,  although  I  know  there 
is  not  a  grain  of  real  human  nature  in  it.  It's  just 
a  girl's  sentimental  theory. 

We  have  but  little  news  of  the  war  here.  One 
German  lady  with  whom  Doris  and  I  have  enjoyed 
many  hours  of  pleasant  conversation,  but  with 
whom  we  had  carefully  avoided  the  subject  of  the 
war,  amused  us  very  much  to-night.  Some  more 
than  usually  untactful  ancient  Americans  brought 

3 


80        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

the  subject  forward.  The  German  lady  looked  at 
Doris  and  smiled. 

"  Slid  Africa,  I  think  taboo.  We  have  been 
good  friends  while  we  have  been  together  in  this 
hotel ;  I  would  prefer  to  part  the  same,  so  Slid 
Africa  taboo." 

We  took  her  sound  advice,  and  Slid  Africa  has 
been  tabooed  during  the  whole  of  our  visit. 

She  is  a  granddaughter  of  Mendelssohn,  and  has 
some  capital  stories  to  tell.  She  can  speak  seven 
or  eight  languages  with  great  rapidity  and  with  an 
extravagant  German  accent.  One  of  her  stories 
about  Heine  I  know  will  amuse  you — I  had  never 
heard  it  before.  He  was  staying  in  a  hotel  in  some 
German  watering-place  when  he  heard  some 
English  ladies,  whom  he  knew,  complaining  of  the 
bad  tea  which  was  invariably  served  in  German  and 
French  hotels.  Heine  told  them  that  he  could  not 
understand  the  cause  of  their  complaint — that  the 
tea  he  got  in  that  hotel  was  excellent,  as  good  as 
any  one  could  get  in  England.  To  prove  it  he 
invited  them  to  tea  in  his  rooms.  The  ladies 
arrived  punctual  to  the  moment,  but  no  tea  was 
forthcoming.  Their  host  for  the  third  time  rang 
the  bell  and  demanded  the  reason.  The  waiter 
looked  uncomfortable,  and  hesitated  to  explain. 
Heine  insisted. 

"  The  English  ladies  have  had  no  tea  this  after- 
noon," he  said,  "  so  you  cannot  have  any  either; 
you  always  have  their  tea  after  they  have  finished." 

There  was  a  great  laugh  at  Heine's  expense,  for 
the  English  ladies  had  brought  their  tea  out  from 
England  with  them. 

This  same  German  lady  has  lent  Doris  a  copy 
of  Cicero's  impeachment  of  Verres.  Cicero  spent 
some  time  in  Sicily  examining  witnesses  and  col- 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        81 

lecting  facts  in  support  of  his  charges  in  the 
prosecution  he  had  undertaken  to  conduct  against 
Verres.  His  description  of  Syracuse  is,  I  believe, 
world-famous;  but  if,  like  myself,  you  are  not 
familiar  with  it,  please  read  it  at  once.  It  is  the 
most  beautiful  piece  of  word-painting  you  have 
ever  read.  It  seems  impossible  that  it  was  written 
seventy  years  before  the  Christian  era,  for  it  is 
much  more  sympathetic  and  infinitely  more  realistic 
than  anything  that  has  been  written  on  the  subject 
since.  Read  the  orations  against  Verres  right 
through ;  you  will  not  be  bored  with  them,  I  assure 
you,  for  he  works  you  up  as  he  worked  up  the  feel- 
ings of  the  people  of  Rome  when  he  told  them  how 
he  had  seen  with  his  own  eyes  the  glorious  temples 
of  Syracuse,  of  Segesta,  and  of  Enna  robbed  of 
their  gods,  and  the  beautiful  cities  of  Sicily 
despoiled  of  their  ancient  splendour  by  the  greed  of 
Verres.  He  gives  a  description  of  each  town  he 
visited,  which  makes  this  volume  much  the  best 
handbook  to  ancient  Sicily. 

Yours, 
J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

Inspired  by  Cicero,  Doris  and  I  made  a 
pilgrimage  into  the  city  of  Syracuse  to-day.  She 
has  asked  me  to  call  her  Doris;  she  is  getting 
home-sick  for  the  sound  of  her  Christian  name,  she 
says.  She  wanted  to  worship  in  the  cathedral. 
Think  of  her!  that  fair  English  girl  kneeling 
devoutly  on  the  marble  floor  of  that  vast  Pagan 
temple ;  for,  although  certain  forms  of  the  service 
have  been  altered,  the  Latin  Church  in  Sicily  is 
wonderfully  Pagan  still.  First  we  examined  the 
outside  of  the  building,  where  the  big  white 
columns  of  the  ancient  temple  of  Minerva  have 
been  built  right  into  the  structure  of  the  modern 
walls,  or,  rather,  the  modern  walls  have  been  built 
round  these  columns.  Seen  from  the  outside, 
these  pillars  are  almost  flush  with  the  wall,  but 
inside  they  stand  out  amazingly  big,  a  stately  re- 
minder of  the  greatness  of  the  past.  Where,  one 
asks  oneself,  will  the  present  wall  be  when  the  same 
length  of  time  has  passed  over  its  standing-ground  ? 
I  believe  when  all  this  is  past  and  gone  these  Pagan 
pillars  will  still  remain  giants  of  the  primitive  past, 
when  man  worshipped  the  forces  of  nature  which 
produced  the  necessaries  of  life.  Beyond  these 
pillars  is  the  ancient  font,  which  is  now  used  for 
the  baptism  of  infants  into  the  Church  of  Christ ; 
it  once  came  in  for  libations  in  the  temple  of 

Bacchus. 

3* 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        83 

The  organ  lofts  are  fine  examples  of  Renaissance 
art ;  their  gold  tracery  makes  a  rich  splash  of  light 
in  the  colourless  building.  We  had  barely  time 
for  a  hurried  glance  at  these  things  before  the  ser- 
vice commenced.  I  think  if  you  had  seen  Doris 
kneeling  there,  her  English  sailor-hat  balanced  on 
her  coils  of  fair  hair,  praying  amongst  a  gathering 
of  dark,  sunburnt  country  peasants,  and  pale  frail 
old  people,  dwellers  in  the  dark  streets  which  Doris 
had  so  dreaded  seeing — streets  whose  houses  know 
neither  fires  nor  sun — if  you  had  been  there  to  see 
the  contrast  I  think  even  you  would  have  experi- 
enced the  difficulty  I  had  in  keeping  my  throat  in 
its  normal  swallowing  condition.  I  agree  with 
her  in  discouraging  the  habit  which  our  country- 
men adopt  abroad  of  "  doing  "  the  cathedrals  and 
churches  during  divine  service. 

To-day  a  monk  was  preaching,  and  I  much  re- 
gretted that  I  could  not  understand  his  undoubted 
eloquence;  for  never  before,  with  the  exception 
of  a  service  I  attended  in  the  Jesuit  Church  in 
Palermo,  have  I  listened  to  such  an  uninterrupted 
flow  of  language.  A  fine  figure  he  looked,  stand- 
at  the  chancel  steps,  dressed  in  his  brown  robe  and 
immense  white  girdle  and  rosary.  I  noticed  that 
the  better-off  Syracusans  in  the  congregation, 
those  who  could  afford  to  pay  a  sou  for  the  luxury 
of  a  chair,  appeared  to  be  totally  lacking  in 
reverence;  but  to  make  up  for  the  irreverence  of 
those  who  were  in  a  position  to  wear  hats  and  cheap 
feathers  there  was  the  behaviour  of  the  simple 
country  peasants  and  the  humbler  residents  in  the 
city.  They  were  indeed  a  striking  example  of  good 
breeding;  their  devout  demeanour  commanded 
respect.  The  dignity  of  bearing  among  these  poor 
Sicilians  is  marvellous.  Some  of  the  old  men  had 
faces  so  finely  featured  that  they  might  have  been 


34        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 


carved  out  of  marble,  only  that  their  skins  were  a 
warm  brown  from  exposure  to  the  sun.  Sicilian 
repose  is  a  thing  undreamt  of  until  you  have  seen 
these  old  men,  dressed  in  their  native  costume, 
their  limbs  unhampered  with  "  Sunday  blacks," 
their  slim  ankles  bound  round  with  thongs  of  rough 
goat's  hide,  their  bright  blue-cotton  knee-breeches 
fitting  closely,  while  their  brown  coats  of  many 
shades  hang  with  time-worn  ease  from  slightly 
bent  shoulders. 

Doris  said  that  a  group  of  such  men  kneeling  in 
front  of  some  popular  side-chapel  was  exactly  like 
the  Italian  pictures  of  the  wise  men  worshipping 
the  Magi.  She  loved  to  see  the  little  children 
playing  about  the  vast  building  quite  fearlessly; 
they  did  not  disturb  the  worshippers  in  the  least, 
she  said,  and  as  it  is  their  Father's  House,  why 
should  little  ones  be  made  to  keep  a  painful  silence, 
and  be  forced  into  pretending  to  enter  into  the 
service  which  they  do  not  understand  ? 

There  were  two  little  ones  whom  I  watched ;  the 
elder  was  not  four  years  old.  They  toddled  about 
the  great  building,  hand  in  hand,  visiting  all  the 
side-chapels,  but  never  forgetting  to  bow  their  baby 
heads  before  the  pictures  of  Our  Lady  and  her 
crucified  Son  after  they  had  admired  all  the  bright 
ornaments  on  the  gaily  draped  altars,  and  gazed 
with  young  and  wondering  eyes  on  the  hundreds 
of  silver  hands  and  hearts  which  had  been  hung  up 
as  tokens  of  gratitude  and  faith  for  the  recovery  of 
some  loved  one  who  had  been  prayed  for  and  re- 
lieved. No  doubt  these  two  mites  had  known  some 
poor  woman  who  had  saved  her  cents  and  deprived 
herself  of  bread  to  be  able  to  purchase  a  silver  heart 
to  leave  in  the  chapel  of  Our  Blessed  Lady.  In 
course  of  time  they  found  their  way  to  the  chancel 
steps.     Not  in  the  least  afraid,  they  stood  close  to 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        35 

the  eloquent  monk ;  nor  was  he  put  out  by  their 
presence,  for  the  next  few  moments  he  addressed 
his  congregation  with  his  hand  stroking  the  small 
dark  head  of  the  little  girl,  while  both  children 
were  busy  fingering  and  counting  the  beads  of  his 
fine  rosary.  When  they  grew  tired  of  standing 
still,  and  the  crucifix  and  the  beads  had  lost  their 
charm,  they  wandered,  still  hand  in  hand,  in  and 
out  of  the  kneeling  congregation,  until  at  last  they 
came  across  their  mother,  who  smiled  to  them  with 
the  gentle  smile  of  the  Italian  mother.  As  we 
looked  at  that  young  mother  we  recognised  how 
simple  a  matter  it  was  for  the  old  Italian  painters, 
such  as  Bellini  and  Francia,  to  find  models  for 
their  sweetly  divine  women.  They  had  only  to  go 
into  the  meanest  street,  and  they  could  find  a 
dozen  to  choose  from.  This  particular  mother  had 
her  slender  figure  veiled  in  the  soft  black  shawl 
which  serves  the  modest  poor  Sicilian  woman  for 
Sunday  bonnet  and  cloak ;  it  was  folded  closely 
over  her  head,  and  covered  half  her  cheeks  like  a 
nun's  coif,  and  then  fell  out  in  loose  long  lines  to 
her  knees.  The  art  of  getting  a  shawl  to  hang  like 
that  is  still  a  puzzle  to  Doris,  for  no  pin  is  ever 
given  the  chance  of  tearing  the  ancient  fabric. 
This  woman's  mother  had  no  doubt  worshipped  in 
the  same  shawl,  and  probably  her  mother  before 
her. 

"  She  is  so  proud  of  the  little  man-child  in  her 
arms,"  Doris  said  in  a  whisper.  "  Look!  such  a 
precious  joy  fills  her  that  she  is  not  even  troubled 
by  the  fact  that  there  is  so  little  to  eat  at  home,  now 
that  this  last  dear  one  has  come  to  share  it,  that  she 
herself  is  almost  always  hungry.  But  I  suppose 
true  mothers  almost  enjoy  that  sort  of  hunger, 
don't  they?  Her  home  is  a  basement,  no  doubt, 
cold  and  damp  ;  but  it  is  her  home,  the  house  where 


36        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

her  children  were  born."  Ad  ogni  uccello  suo  nido 
h  bello, — To  every  bird  its  nest  is  fair. 

Syracuse  is  just  as  deceitful  as  Doris  feared. 
Who  could  ever  Imagine,  as  he  looked  at  it  from 
the  garden  that  we  both  love,  the  darkness,  the 
smells,  and  the  sorrow  that  her  outward  fairness 
hides,  the  poverty  and  hunger  that  now  fill  her 
streets?  How,  indeed,  are  the  mighty  fallen  as 
regards  Syracuse,  first  of  all  cities  in  the  days  when 
the  greatness  of  the  world  centred  round  the  blue 
African  waters ! 

For  one  so  young  and  full  of  vigorous  girlhood, 
Doris  has  a  very  tender  heart  for  all  things  poor  and 
suffering, and  a  gentle  heart  is  the  true  definition  of 
a  gentlewoman  or  man,  I  think ;  for  a  gentle  heart 
could  never  dictate  a  vulgar  or  coarse  action.  I 
have  often  known  women  who  appeared  on  a  slight 
acquaintance  to  be  well  bred,  but  on  further  inti- 
macy they  have  betrayed  what  is  generally  known 
as  the  "  cloven  hoof,"  and,  without  one  exception, 
the  action  that  betrayed  that  lack  of  breeding  has 
always  come  from  the  absence  of  a  gentle  heart,  a 
want  of  tenderness  for  others'  feelings. 

You  must  remember  that  this  very  cathedral 
about  which  I  have  been  writing  is  the  actual 
fabric  of  the  temple  of  Minerva,  so  gloriously  de- 
scribed by  Cicero  in  his  impeachment  of  Verres. 
While  speaking  of  a  series  of  cavalry  pictures, 
which  once  adorned  the  walls  of  the  temple,  he 
says  :  u  Nothing  could  be  more  noble  than  those 
paintings ;  there  was  nothing  at  Syracuse  that  was 
thought  more  worthy  going  to  see.  These  pic- 
tures Marcus  Marcellus,  though  by  that  victory  of 
his  he  had  divested  everything  of  its  sacred  inviola- 
bility of  character,  out  of  respect  for  religion,  never 
touched.  Verres,  though,  in  consequence  of  the 
long  peace  and  loyalty  of  the  Syracusan  people,  he 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        37 

had  received  them  as  sacred  and  under  the  protec- 
tion of  religion,  took  away  all  these  pictures,  and 
left  naked  and  unsightly  those  walls,  whose  decora- 
tions had  remained  inviolate  for  so  many  ages,  and 
had  escaped  so  many  wars.  Marcellus,  who  had 
vowed  that  if  he  took  Syracuse  he  would  erect  two 
temples  at  Rome,  was  unwilling  to  adorn  the  tem- 
ple which  he  was  going  to  build  with  these  treasures 
which  were  his  by  right  of  capture.  Verres,  who 
was  bound  by  no  vows  to  Honour  or  Virtue,  as 
Marcellus  was,  but  only  to  Venus  and  to  Cupid, 
attempted  to  plunder  the  Temple  of  Minerva. 
The  one  was  unwilling  to  adorn  gods  in  the  spoil 
taken  from  gods,  the  other  transferred  the  decora- 
tions of  the  Virgin  Minerva  to  the  house  of  a 
prostitute." 

He  next  goes  on  to  extol  the  wonders  of  the  fold- 
ing-doors of  the  temple. 

11  But  now  what  shall  I  say  of  the  folding  doors 
of  that  temple?  I  am  afraid  that  those  who  have 
not  seen  these  things  may  think  that  I  am  speaking 
too  highly  of,  and  exaggerating  everything  ....  I 
am  able  to  prove  this  distinctly,  O  judges,  that  no 
more  magnificent  doors,  none  more  beautifully 
wrought  of  gold  and  ivory,  ever  existed  in  any 
temple.  It  is  incredible  how  many  Greeks  have 
left  written  accounts  of  the  beauty  of  these  doors." 

With  biting  sarcasm  he  passes  on,  after  having 
given  a  detailed  account  of  the  treasures  Verres 
took  from  the  temple,  to  his  desecration  of  the  city. 

M  For  the  Sappho  which  was  taken  away  out  of 
the  town-hall,  affords  you  so  reasonable  an  excuse, 
that  it  may  seem  almost  allowable  and  pardonable. 
That  work  of  Silanion,  so  perfect,  so  elegant,  so 
elaborate  (I  will  not  say  what  private  man),  but 
what  nation  could  be  so  worthy  to  possess,  as  the 
most    elegant    and   learned    Verres?      Certainly, 


38        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

nothing  can  be  said  against  it.  If  any  one  of  us, 
who  are  not  as  happy,  who  cannot  be  as  refined  as 
that  man,  should  wish  to  behold  anything  of  the 
sort,  let  him  go  to  the  Temple  of  Good  Fortune, 
to  the  Monument  of  Catulus,  to  the  Portico  of 
Metellus ;  let  him  take  pains  to  get  admittance  into 
the  Tusculan  Villa  of  any  one  of  these  men ;  let  him 
see  the  forum  when  decorated,  if  Verres  is  ever  so 
kind  as  to  lend  any  of  his  treasures  to  the  aediles. 
Shall  Verres  have  all  these  things  at  home?  Shall 
Verres  have  his  house  full  of,  his  villas  crammed 
with,  the  ornaments  of  temples  and  cities?  Will 
you  still,  O  judges,  bear  with  the  hobby,  as  he  calls 
it,  and  pleasures  of  this  vile  artisan?  a  man  who  was 
born  in  such  a  rank,  educated  in  such  a  way,  and 
who  is  so  formed  both  in  his  mind  and  body,  that 
he  appears  a  much  fitter  person  to  take  down 
statues  than  to  appropriate  them." 

Then  he  goes  on  working  up  the  indignation  of 
the  people  with  his  vehemence  and  masterly 
eloquence,  and  at  the  same  time  handing  down  to 
us  a  faithful  account  of  the  riches  and  magnificence 
of  Pagan  Sicily. 

Doris  and  I  are  constantly  in  Cicero's  company 
now.  We  cannot  be  too  grateful  to  the  German 
lady  for  the  introduction.  He  is  so  enthusiastic, 
so  deliciously  modern.  By  this  time,  however,  I 
expect  you  will  also  have  made  his  acquaintance,  so 
I  will  not  again  give  myself  the  trouble  of  quoting 
him  at  length.  Cardinal  Newman  in  Sicily  is 
pleasant  reading,  but  thin  and  unsatisfying  after 
Cicero. 

Newman  speaks  of  the  island  very  tenderly;  it 
seems  to  have  taken  hold  of  him  and  affected  him 
just  in  the  way  it  does  affect  every  one  who  spends 
more  than  a  day  or  two  on  its  shores.  He  was 
terribly  ill  during  his  journey  through  the  island, 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        89 

and  alludes  repeatedly  to  the  horrible  discomforts 
he  underwent  from  dirt  and  fleas. 

I  wish  that  the  Villa  Politi  had  been  in  existence 
when  he  was  in  Syracuse  :  what  rest  and  peace  he 
would  have  found  in  the  clean  white  hotel,  and  the 
sunny  rock  garden,  with  the  deep  green  of  the  cool 
latomia,  Theocritus 's  latomia — to  wander  in,  when 
his  mind  sought  silence  and  the  repose  of  deep 
shadows!  I  wish  he  had  written  "  Lead,  kindly 
Light,"  from  this  lovely  garden  :  the  evening  light 
on  Syracuse  might  have  inspired  it;  but  it  was 
composed,  I  believe,  on  board  an  orange  boat  on 
his  return  journey  from  the  island  to  Marseilles. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February  19th,  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

This  has  been  a  day  of  happy  idleness ;  in- 
deed, our  hearts  were  too  full  of  rejoicing  to  think 
of  Greek  remains,  for  the  Catania  paper  (the  one 
we  rely  on  here  for  the  truest  account  of  the  war) 
this  evening  contained  the  news  that  Kimberley  is 
relieved,  and  now  we  are,  as  you  can  imagine,  all 
impatience  for  the  arrival  of  the  English  news- 
papers of  the  16th.  The  German  in  the  mackin- 
tosh and  the  other  waterproofed  sons  of  the  Father- 
land are  not  prepared  to  accept  the  news;  their 
general  attitude  towards  South  Africa  forbids  us 
questioning  them  on  the  subject.  Doris  thanks 
God  she  cannot  understand  German,  for  she  de- 
clares she  would  have  poisoned  some  of  them  long 
ago.  Their  language  sounds  ugly  enough  at  any 
time,  she  says,  but  when  it  is  used  for  laughing  at 
the  reverses  to  our  brave  troops  it  is  outside  the 
limit  of  civilised  tongues.  It  is  hard  indeed  to  put 
up  with  it,  knowing  that  those  very  Germans  will 
not  be  near  us  to  see  our  rejoicing  when  the  victory 
is  ours.  The  old  general's  Italian  manservant,  who 
accompanies  his  master  everywhere  and  stands  be- 
hind his  chair  at  dinner,  was  very  amusing  when 
the  good  news-  came.  The  master  and  servant 
fought  together  with  Garibaldi,  I  believe,  so  there 
is  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  them.  The  servant 
was  born  in  Trieste,  and  looks  a  first-class  villain ; 

Doris  declares  he  is  one.     Like  all  north  Italians, 

40 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        41 

he  has  the  greatest  contempt  for  Southern  Italy. 
Well,  he  announced  to  his  master  to-day  that  as 
he  had  not  been  drunk  for  sixteen  years  (a  brave 
lie !)  he  intended  to  get  royally  drunk  on  the  days 
Kimberley  and  Lady  smith  were  relieved.  Whilst 
Doris  and  I  were  walking  past  the  small  albergo, 
near  the  Greek  amphitheatre,  Rumanio,  as  he  is 
called,  appeared  at  the  door.  Recognising  us  as 
friends  of  his  master  and  guests  at  the  same  hotel, 
he  dashed  out  to  meet  us,  and  in  voluble  Italian 
told  us  that  he  had  just  heard  that  Kimberley  was 
relieved.  And  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  as  much 
as  to  say,  u  So  you  can  tell  my  master  that  my 
great  drunk  has  begun." 

We  listened  to  the  conversation  which  followed 
between  the  pretty  daughter  of  the  house  and  the 
villain  of  Trieste. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  eat?"  he  asked,  looking 
round  at  the  nakedness  of  the  poor  little  inn  with 
the  scorn  of  the  rich  North  for  the  starving  South. 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders,  and 
told  him,  "  Bread  and  cheese  and  fennel." 

He  expressed  his  fine  disdain  by  the  mere  raising 
of  his  eyebrows. 

"  What  do  you  want  more?"  she  said, — "  roast 
Christian?  There  is  none  ready  now,  but  if  you 
will  return  in  two  hours  I  will  go  to  the  amphi- 
theatre and  fetch  some." 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter  at  the  fine  "  gentle- 
man's gentleman,"  and  we  heard  no  more ;  but  the 
fellow  being  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  and  the  girl  a 
pretty  flirt,  you  may  be  sure  it  did  not  end  there. 
During  the  interview  the  old  mother,  with  her  head 
wrapped  up  in  an  orange-coloured  handkerchief, 
had  been  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway. 
The  virtue  of  even  the  poorest  maiden  in  Sicily  is 
strictly  guarded. 


42        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

I  can  think  of  nothing  else  but  Kimberley,  and 
how  to  find  means  of  verifying  the  good  news. 
England  has  never  seemed  so  far  off. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

J.  C. 

P.S. — Yes,  Madame  Politi  is  German  by  birth, 
which  accounts  for  the  cleanliness  of  her  hotel ;  but 
her  love  for  Sicily  is  greater  than  for  the  Father- 
land. A  warm  climate  is  more  enjoyable  when 
your  bedroom  is  under  the  supervision  of  a  German 
housekeeper.  Doris  says  Madame  Politi  is  a 
Sicilian  when  she  is  working  in  her  garden,  and  a 
German  when  she  is  putting  her  house  linen  in 
order. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,   1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

To-day  was  market  day  in  Syracuse,  so  we 
idled  along  the  Catania  road  in  order  to  meet  the 
country  people  coming  in  on  their  good  mules  and 
donkeys,  laden  with  their  farm  produce.  What 
pleased  us  most  was  the  dignified  appearance  of  the 
old  ladies  mounted  on  their  black  donkeys.  Those 
slender,  sure-footed  beasts  are  well  burdened,  I  can 
tell  you,  for  the  Sicilian  housewife  places  across  the 
beast's  back  a  copious  saddlebag,  which  reaches 
within  a  foot  or  so  of  the  ground  on  either  side. 
The  entire  weekly  produce  of  her  farm  she  contrives 
to  stow  into  the  capacious  pockets,  while  she  her- 
self, with  a  fine  dignity,  sits  perched  up  between 
them.  Her  legs,  finding  no  place  to  hang  them- 
selves on  either  side  of  the  donkey,  cling  comfort- 
ably round  its  neck;  but  even  this  extraordinary 
mode  of  riding  is  not  sufficient  to  upset  the 
composure  or  complacent  expression  of  an  aged 
Sicilian.  When  the  woman  returns  in  the  evening 
from  market,  the  saddlebags  will  be  just  as  uncom- 
fortably full,  but  polenta  and  brown  bread  will  then 
be  substituted  for  the  lean  chickens  and  green 
fennel. 

The  slow,  even  pace  at  which  these  beasts  of 
burden  travel  is  amazing!  Their  gentle-faced 
riders,  who  generally  go  to  market  in  their  best 
black  shawls,  know  no  such  disturbing  element  as 
impatience ;  the  great  enemy  unrest  has  not  entered 
into  their  philosophic  existence. 

43 


44        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Doris  wondered  why  we  never  saw  a  young  girl 
riding  into  market — why  old  women  were  left  to 
travel  the  long  white  dusty  roads  alone.  "  The 
busy  housewives  should  send  the  girls  into  the  city 
to  sell  the  fennel.  Look !  that  is  the  same  woman 
we  met  early  this  morning ;  she  is  only  this  distance 
on  her  homeward  way,  and  it  is  now  four  o'clock." 
In  the  morning  we  had  been  driving  to  the  famous 
castle  of  Euryalus,  and  for  Sicilian  horses  our  pair 
were  travelling  at  a  good  pace.  We  passed  the 
woman  riding  her  slender-legged,  fine-haired,  black 
donkey  four  or  five  times,  for  Doris  had  insisted  on 
our  coachman  stopping  his  horses  at  brief  intervals 
while  she  climbed  the  white  stone  wall  which 
separated  the  dusty  highroad  from  the  fields  full  of 
flowers  and  ancient  olive-trees. 

"  Look!"  she  cried,  holding  up  a  big  bunch  of 
wild  anemones,  M  did  you  ever  see  such  a  lovely 
colour?" 

Held  so  close  to  her  violet  eyes,  the  lie  I  told  was 
a  brave  one ;  but  I  knew  she  loved  no  personal  flat- 
tery and  adored  the  wild  winter  flowers.  We  had 
bought  some  fine  Greek-shaped  vases  made  of  the 
rough  Sicilian  pottery ;  the  soft  buff  of  their  lightly 
baked  clay  went  well  with  the  brilliant  pink  of  the 
small  campion  which  spreads  itself  like  a  carpet 
over  the  flat  country  at  this  time  of  the  year.  Just 
as  Doris  was  climbing  the  wall  to  reach  the  high- 
road the  woman  on  the  quiet-footed  ass  passed  us 
again.  She  bowed,  and  said  with  a  smile — a 
gentle  smile  of  tolerance  for  our  ignorance — 
"  They  are  only  wild  flowers,  signorina ;  they  grow 
everywhere." 

"  But  they  are  beautiful,  are  they  not?" 

"  Gia,  gia,"  she  said,  looking  admiringly  at  the 
pretty  flushed  face,  "  good  enough  in  their  way." 
She  meant,  "  Not  good  enough  for  you,  who  should 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        45 

have  a  lover  more  gallant  than  to  let  you  gather 
wild  flowers." 

"  Isn't  it  curious,"  Doris  said,  "  that  the  loveli- 
est wild  flowers  which  grow  in  their  lovely  land  are 
in  their  eyes  worth  nothing?  They  cost  nothing, 
so  they  are  worth  nothing.  It  is  all  in  keeping,  I 
suppose,  with  their  childish  inability  to  understand 
why  we  should  vex  ourselves  over  the  suffering  of 
soulless  animals.  '  They  have  no  souls,  signorina ; 
what  does  it  matter?  it  is  the  soul  that  suffers.'  " 

As  we  were  speaking  a  cart  passed,  laden  with 
young  people ;  we  counted  eleven  in  it  altogether, 
and  the  donkey  drawing  it  was  not  much  bigger 
than  a  sheep.  Such  a  riot  of  colour  as  that  small 
cart  contained  it  would  be  impossible  to  convey  to 
you,  for  colour  is  never  colour  until  seen  under  a 
southern  sun  and  on  a  snow-white  road. 

A  Sicilian  cart  itself,  you  must  know,  is  like  no 
other  work-a-day  cart  on  God's  earth,  but  rather 
like  some  gaudy  curio,  some  well-preserved  relic 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  is  shaped  like  a  servant's 
box  and  made  of  the  toughest  oak.  The  box  is 
poised  high  in  the  air  on  the  top  of  so  elaborately 
carved  and  painted  an  axletree  that  it  is  well  worth 
your  while  to  kneel  on  the  dusty  road  and  get  under 
the  box  part  to  study  the  workmanship,  and  the 
intricate  beauty  of  the  design.  The  wheels  of  the 
cart,  from  the  wretched  condition  of  the  country 
roads,  require  to  be  of  enormous  height ;  this  gives 
the  vehicle  a  most  absurd  appearance;  but  if  you 
journey  long  in  Sicily  you  will  find  that  the  highest 
wheels  can  get  buried  in  mud.  The  four  sides  of 
the  cart  are  painted  to  represent  famous  biblical 
and  historical  incidents.  Tell  shooting  at  the 
apple,  and  the  Crucifixion,  are  the  most  popular 
subjects.  These  gorgeous  carts  cost  a  great  deal 
of  money,  and  are  objects  of  rivalry  in  families; 

4 


46        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

the  elaborate  brass-mounted  harness  of  the  mules, 
with  its  truly  exquisite  embossed  trappings,  to- 
gether with  the  cart,  form  a  farmer's  most  precious 
family  heirloom.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  mules  are 
not  heirlooms  as  well,  for  I  am  convinced  that 
mules  are  far  too  clever  and  obstinate  ever  to  die ! 
The  life  of  a  Sicilian  mule  should  be  a  very  interest- 
ing subject  if  it  ever  comes  to  be  written. 

As  we  watched  the  fantastic  cart,  piled  high  with 
gay  young  people,  driving  slowly  along  the  sunny 
southern  road,  Doris,  divining  somehow  that  my 
thoughts  had  fled  to  green  England,  cried  : 

M  Not  a  bit  of  real  green  anywhere  to  temper  the 
scene ;  only  the  blue-green  cactus  leering  at  us  from 
over  the  plastered  walls,  and  the  silver-grey  olive- 
trees  shimmering  in  the  sun  in  the  white,  rock- 
strewn  fields !  The  glory  of  the  pink  campion,  the 
blue  of  the  blue  anemone,  that  cart  full  to  bursting 
with  red  and  yellow  head-towels,  are  bits  of  the 
South.  Even  that  woman,  far  on  ahead  on  her 
donkey,  in  her  softly  falling  mantle  of  black,  creep- 
ing along  between  the  white  walls,  does  nothing  to 
sober  the  scene ;  it  is  all  one  blaze  of  southern  light, 
a  light  which  lays  bare  every  grain  of  colour  hidden 
under  duller  skies." 

"  If  I  were  the  girls  in  that  overladen  cart,"  she 
went  on,  "  I  would  prefer  riding  a  nice  donkey. 
The  old  lady  on  ahead  has  much  the  best  of  it,  I 
think." 

11  Don't  you  see,"  I  answered,  "  that  the  cart 
holds  the  mother  and  father  as  well  as  the  pretty 
daughters?  The  Sicilian  signorina  is  always  safely 
guarded,  even  when  she  rides  a  black  donkey  from 
the  hills  into  Syracuse  to  sell  two  francs '-worth  of 
farm  produce.  Her  mother  or  her  grandmother 
always  sits  on  the  same  beast  behind  her ;  the  lover 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        47 

gets  the  smile  from  his  sweetheart  first,  and  the 
scowl  from  her  chaperon  the  second  after." 

"  How  absurd  it  is !  Just  as  if  anything  would 
happen  to  her !  What  a  dreadful  life  they  lead  in 
spite  of  their  air  of  sweet  complaisance  !  I  believe 
they  are  too  well-bred  to  complain.  I  wish  I  could 
look  as  near  an  ideal  princess  as  some  of  those 
girls!" 

u  They  do  not  complain  because  they  know  no 
better.  After  all,  most  people  have  to  be  told  they 
are  actually  unhappy  or  happy  before  they  are 
quite  aware  of  it.  A  husband  in  Sicily  amongst 
the  working  classes  is  often  in  the  habit  of  locking 
his  womenfolk  in  the  house  and  taking  the  key  in 
his  pocket  out  into  the  fields." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  why  there  is  always  a  face  at  a 
window  in  Sicily?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  undoubtedly  that  is  the  reason. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  wistful,  tragic  face  of  a  neg- 
lected wife,  at  others  it  is  the  smiling  glance  of 
some  young  girl  eager  to  anticipate  the  excitement 
of  her  first  romance ;  the  breath  of  intrigue  is  the 
first  a  Sicilian  male  or  female  infant  breathes,  it  is 
the  last  that  takes  leave  of  him." 

In  a  field,  a  little  farther  on,  Doris  spied  some 
fine  blooms  of  the  double  red  Sicilian  wild  rose.  It 
is  not  by  any  means  common  round  Syracuse,  and 
we  were  delighted  with  our  new  prize ;  it  is  a  deep 
red  rose,  not  at  all  unlike  the  crimson  rambler. 
While  we  were  praising  its  beauty  and  thinking 
ourselves  mighty  clever,  the  black-cloaked  figure  on 
the  donkey  passed  us  once  again.  With  exactly 
the  same  dignity  of  greeting,  she  said  something 
to  the  effect  that  it  was  the  tortoise  that  won  the 
race,  after  all;  although  we  had  two  fast  horses, 
she  would  be  home  first  if  we  lingered  so  long  on 
the  road.     M  But  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  the 


48        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

signorina,"  she  said.  "  She  is  only  out  for  pleasure. 
I  have  much  business  to  attend  to." 

11  Wouldn't  I  love  to  know  the  nature  of  her 
business!"  Doris  said  with  laughing  eyes.  "  No 
doubt  that  pretty  gracious  head  so  elegantly  poised 
under  the  soft  black  shawl  and  those  gentle  tragic 
eyes  are  rilled  with  nothing  deeper  than  the  best 
way  to  spend  her  few  soldi,  or  how  to  get  the  better 
of  the  shopman  to  whom  she  will  sell  her  weary 
hens." 

I  am  afraid  you  will  think  Doris  and  I  are  not 
serious  enough  about  our  Sicily,  and  Sicily  is  very 
serious.  Sicily  is  like  a  woman  with  a  frivolous 
face  and  tragic  eyes  ....  There  is  sunshine  and 
beauty  all  over  the  land,  and  a  burden  of  hunger 
and  woe  on  her  children. 

We  talk  of  laughter-loving  Italy;  it  may  have 
been  even  so  once  in  Sicily,  but  to-day  it  is  other- 
wise. The  beauty  of  the  women  and  the  dignity 
of  the  men  are  always  intensified  by  the  veiled 
sorrow  in  their  eyes.  If  one  could,  without  spoiling 
the  beauty  and  simplicity  of  the  island,  lift  the  yoke 
of  poverty  from  off  the  shoulders  of  these  poor 
creatures,  what  a  home  of  laughter  and  sunshine 
Sicily  might  be,  a  veritable  land  "  with  milk  and 
honey  blessed" !  But  then,  again,  this  cruel 
poverty  is  the  mother  of  native  ingenuity,  and  her 
offspring  is  beautiful  Simplicity ;  remove  the  one 
and  you  kill  the  others,  and  so,  from  the  artistic 
point  of  view,  let  us  keep  dear  Sicily  as  it  is,  and 
reverence  the  poverty  which  with  her  is  so  seldom 
depravity,  and  thank  God  there  is  still  one  little 
corner  of  Europe  where  the  thumb  of  progress  has 
not  left  its  vulgar  mark.  So  you  see,  there  are  two 
Sicilies  to  write  about,  read  about,  and  dream 
about,  aye  indeed,  and  to  weep  about,  too  :  the 
ancient  Sicily  which  the  German  M  does  "  with  a 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        49 

Baedeker  in  a  mackintosh,  and  the  other  Sicily — I 
cannot  call  it  modern,  for  that  were  a  rank  heresy, 
for  nothing  in  Sicily  is  modern  or  common — the 
Sicily  Doris  and  I  love  and  understand  best — the 
Sicily  of  beauty  and  tragedy  and  flowers  and  sun- 
shine. 

The  tobacco  I  told  you  of,  which  the  general  was 
to  persuade  me  into  smoking,  is  vile  stuff.  I  will 
look  to  you  to  send  me  some,  any  decent  sort,  the 
next  time  you  are  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Army  and  Navy  Stores. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

I  should  have  written  some  days  ago  to  thank 
you  for  the  tobacco,  which  is  excellent  and  cheap 
at  the  price,  but  my  lengthy  letter-writing  is  not 
so  easy  now  as  I  am  really  very  busy  doing  nothing. 
And  doing  nothing  is  a  very  exacting  occupation. 
The  more  you  give  in  to  it  the  more  it  expects  of 
you,  and  where  one  half-hour's  smoke  in  the  sun 
after  lunch  sufficed  me  a  month  ago,  I  now  find 
myself  seated  in  the  same  chair  watching  the  same 
two  lizards  disporting  themselves  on  the  white  wall 
of  the  front  portico  when  Madame  Politi  calls  out 
from  her  little  room  that  our  tea  is  ready.  Besides, 
Doris  is  urging  me  to^finish  her  story. 

You  agree  with  me,  of  course,  that  it  was  quite 
unnatural  for  the  young  girl  of  my  small  romance 
to  love  the  elderly  soldier  in  the  way  that  we  all 
like  to  be  loved.  Doris  declares  that  if  the  young 
man  had  never  turned  up  they  would  have  lived 
happily  ever  afterwards.  She  does  not  seem  to 
recollect  that  although  a  wife  may  promise  to  love, 
honour,  and  obey  her  husband,  she  cannot  answer 
for  the  behaviour  of  her  own  heart.  So  many 
wives,  as  you  know,  recognise  that  it  is  safer  for 
their  own  peace  of  mind  to  live  in  the  country; 
there  are  fewer  temptations  for  their  husbands  and 
they  are  less  likely  to  notice  when  their  wives  lose 
their  youthful  attractiveness.  They  do  not  run  the 
gauntlet  of  comparison  with  fairer  women  every 

50 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        51 

day.  Wives  who  consider  themselves  the  pos- 
sessors of  good  and  true  husbands  have  told  me  this. 
The  same  women  have  refused  to  have  a  young 
governess  live  in  the  house  to  teach  their  children. 
M  I  will  not  put  temptation  in  John's  way," 
declared  one.  "  If  you  are  satisfied  with  your 
prisoner,  keep  him,  madam,"  I  said;  "  but  I 
should  prefer  letting  the  goat  wander  who  wished 
to  wander.  Tethered  beasts  strangle  themselves 
in  their  own  ropes.  Besides,  is  he  worth  the 
effort?" 

"  Do  you  like  our  heroine  the  better,"  I  asked 
Doris,  "  now  that  the  story  is  developing?" 

11  Yes,"  she  said,  "  much  better.  Still,  she  is 
not  worthy  of  him.  The  sweet  courtesy  with  which 
he  treats  her,  his  tenderness  for  her  youth  and 
ignorance !  Just  fancy  a  chit  of  a  girl  deserving 
and  keeping  the  love  of  a  man  like  that ! — a  man 
whom  any  beautiful  woman  must  have  flattered 
and  spoilt.  She  was  incapable  of  giving  him  the 
love  affected  by  a  boy  who  was  busy  growing  a 
moustache." 

"  But  men  who  have  seen  the  world  and  have 
known  flattery  are  the  very  ones  who  appreciate 
the  direct  simplicity  of  an  unspoilt  girl.  It  is  the 
boys  who  admire  the  rouge-pot  and  brilliance  of  a 
woman  of  the  world.  In  your  old  age  you  return 
to  the  simple  things  of  life,  bread  and  Irish  stew 
for  lunch.  Youth  must  have  a  full  menu  to  tickle 
his  vanity.  His  love  for  her  was  perfectly  natural, 
her  treatment  of  him  was  natural,  too;  it  was 
human  nature,  my  dear.  Put  yourself  in  her  place. 
Could  you  marry  an  old  man?" 

Her  eyes  evaded  mine  and  her  breath  came 
quickly  for  a  moment. 

"  I  think  I  am  rather  like  her,"  she  said  .  ..."  I 


52        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

am  rather  that  type  of  girl,  but  I  am  perfectly 
certain  I  would  never  have  jilted  the  V.C." 

"  He  gave  her  up,"  I  said. 

u  She  made  him  do  it.  She  knew  he  loved  her 
with  a  father's  and  lover's  love  in  one.  A  father 
will  sacrifice  himself  for  the  happiness  of  his  child, 
a  lover  thinks  only  of  himself." 

Do  you  notice  how  she  evaded  with  a  woman's 
quickness  my  question,  u  Would  she  herself  marry 
an  old  man?" 

In  my  next  letter  I  will  tell  you  about  the  famous 
catacombs  of  San  Giovanni,  which  are  quite  close 
to  this  hotel.  You  will  be  asking  what  is  there  not 
quite  close  to  this  hotel,  but  that  is  more  than  I 
can  tell  you,  for  every  day  brings  forth  some  fresh 
wonder.  Yet  there  is  one  thing  missing.  Each 
morning  we  go  up  to  the  roof  of  the  house  and 
come  down  shaking  our  heads.  "  No,  it  is  not 
there.  Mother  Etna  means  to  cheat  us,"  Doris 
said ;  "  she  is  hiding  herself,  like  De  Wet,  close  by, 
over  the  house.  When  she  does  come  out  it  will 
seem  so  absurd  to  think  that  Etna  has  been  there 
all  this  time  while  we  were  living  in  sublime  ignor- 
ance of  her  whereabouts." 

It  is  the  fault  of  the  sirocco,  Madame  Politi  says. 
The  sirocco  does  and  undoes  wonders  in  Sicily;  it 
seems  to  be  always  blowing. 

Doris  asked  the  facchino  who  cleans  her  boots, 
about  which  she  is  fastidiously  neat,  why  he  had 
neglected  them  for  three  days. 

"  It  does  not  matter  much  in  Syracuse,"  she 
said ;  "  but  still,  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  wear- 
ing them  black.     I  should  like  them  cleaned." 

The  facchino  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Why  have  you  not  cleaned  them?"  she  asked 
impatiently. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        53 

"  The  sirocco,  signorina ;  I  cannot  clean  boots  in 
the  sirocco." 

11  I  certainly  can't  walk  far  in  a  sirocco,"  Doris 
said  to  me  afterwards.  "  I  feel  as  limp  as  a  wet 
chamois  leather;  but  as  this  particular  hot  wind 
blows  almost  every  day  in  the  year,  we  must,  I 
suppose,  remain  content  with  dirty  boots." 

Very  few  fresh  visitors  have  come  to  the  hotel, 
and  we  are  getting  to  know  the  habits  of  the  ones 
who  have  been  with  us  remarkably  well.  There  is 
one  rather  more  than  usually  hungry  German,  who 
finds  the  best  food  which  Madame  Politi  can  pro- 
cure in  unambitious  Syracuse  not  enough  to  satisfy 
his  Teutonic  system.  He  has  now  adopted  a  plan 
at  table  which  amuses  Doris  very  much.  If  he 
has  been  eating  from  some  dish  which  he  has 
more  or  less  enjoyed, — tough  beef,  for  instance, — 
he  holds  on  to  his  plate  when  the  waiter  comes  to 
remove  it,  and  refuses  to  part  with  it  until  he  has 
seen  the  contents  of  the  next  dish.  If  it  is  kid — 
which,  you  must  know,  tastes  uncommonly  like 
stewed  gloves — he  tells  the  waiter  to  bring  him 
back  the  last  course.  If  it  is  degenerate  grey 
mullet — which  is  not  the  grey  mullet  of  England, 
I  beg  to  state — he  helps  himself  liberally  on  his 
beefy  plate.  He  has  a  partiality  for  grey  mullet, 
and  sucks  the  bones.  To  excuse  himself  for  his 
cunning,  he  invariably  tells  the  amused  waiter,  who 
quite  well  sees  through  his  little  plan,  that  he  likes 
his  beef  and  fish,  "  Tutf  insieme."  (If  he  had 
parted  with  his  plate  the  grey  mullet  would  have 
been  a  very  mutilated  one  before  he  saw  it  again.) 
There  are  three  uncertain-aged  Boston  ladies  here 
whom  Doris  has  christened  the  "  ladies  of  Cran- 
ford  "  ;  but  although  she  pokes  a  little  harmless  fun 
at  them,  nothing  is  prettier  than  her  manner  to- 
wards them.     There  cannot  be  more  than  eighteen 


54        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

years  between  the  age  of  the  eldest  and  that  of  the 
youngest,  yet  Doris  says  that  Miss  Rosina  always 
speaks  as  if  her  eldest  sister  was  much  too  old  to 
care  about  expeditions. 

The  three  sisters  have  a  habit  of  disagreeing,  and 
contradicting  each  other's  statements.  An  amus- 
ing instance  occurred  when  Miss  Rosina  told  Doris 
about  her  mother's  death. 

"  We  are  orphans  now,"  she  said.  "  Mother 
died  last  fall." 

Doris  asked  me  afterwards  if  there  was  no  limit 
in  the  Statesman's  Year-booh  to  the  age  of  orphans. 
There  certainly  should  be.  Aged  people  may  have 
no  parents,  but  only  the  young  are  orphans. 

Miss  Rosina  went  on  to  say  that  her  mother's 
death  was  quite  beautiful. 

Miss  Persephine  Biggs  contradicted  her : 
M  Rosina,  you  shouldn't  say  that.  You  suggest 
that  her  death  was  more  beautiful  than  her  life.  It 
was  just  as  she  would  have  wished,  peaceful  and 
calm ;  but  I  think  '  beautiful  '  is  scarcely  the  word 
to  use  upon  such  an  occasion — it  sounds  theatrical." 

The  second  sister  broke  in  : 

11  I  don't  see  how  you  think  it  was  just  as  she 
would  have  wished  it,  Persephine.  She  died  on 
washing  day,  in  her  bonnet,  and  she  was  a  woman 
that  liked  to  fix  things  up  to  the  minute.  It  must 
have  been  very  embarrassing  to  her  to  die  all  in  a 
hurry  like  that." 

Miss  Rosina,  who  has  a  faded  romance  and  smiles 
accordingly,  meekly  replied  : 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  Lord  takes  much  account 
of  the  Biggs'  washing-day,  anyhow."  Here  Miss 
Persephine  handed  Doris  a  peppermint.  "  They 
are  opera  peppermints,"  she  said,  "  and  I  find 
them  an  excellent  digestive ;  the  food  here  is  very 
obstinate." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        55 

"  You  don't  suppose  young  folks'  digestion  is  as 
cranky  as  yours.  I'm  sure  that  complexion  don't 
look  as  if  it  had  ever  known  any  stomach  trouble. 
Peppermints  are  considered  very  vulgar  in  Eng- 
land :  isn't  that  so?"  It  was  Adonaey  who  spoke, 
the  middle  sister ;  her  name  is  the  female  American 
corruption  of  Adonais. 

Doris  confessed  that  in  some  English  circles 
peppermints  might  be  considered  a  little  loud,  but 
that  here  in  Sicily,  where  anything  sweet  is  as 
precious  as  pearls,  she  would  love  to  have  one.  The 
peppermints  in  question  were  the  soft,  fat,  self- 
important,  presidential  peppermints  of  America. 

In  spite  of  all  the  gentle  bickering  which  goes  on 
between  the  three  old  maids,  they  love  each  other 
very  dearly  in  their  tender  old  hearts.  They  have 
one  and  all  lost  their  hearts  to  Doris.  Doris  took 
the  eldest  sister  out  for  a  walk  the  other  day ;  a  high 
wind  was  blowing,  the  wind  which  always  is  blow- 
ing here  when  it  is  not  a  sirocco.  Well,  the  frail 
old  lady  ventured  out,  more,  I  think,  for  the  sake 
of  Doris'  company  than  anything  else. 

"  It  was  so  funny  to  see  her  popping  in  and  out 
of  the  family  vaults  in  the  street  of  tombs.  Why 
do  very  old  people  find  Greek  tombs  so  interesting, 
I  wonder?" 

"  Because  living  humanity  has  ceased  to  take 
much  interest  in  them,"  I  said.  "  Young  people 
find  mankind  more  interesting  in  the  pink  living 
flesh  than  in  the  dry  bones  preserved  in  these 
ancient  rock  tombs." 

"  I  fear  you  will  give  my  classical  education  up 
as  a  bad  business,"  she  said;  "but  I'm  really 
awfully  tired  of  ancient  aqueducts  and  streets  of 
tombs.  The  ancient  Greeks  seemed  to  bury  their 
dead  all  over  the  place — whenever  they  found  a 
convenient  rock  to  hack  a  hole  in,  and  I  believe  the 


56        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Greeks  and  Romans  always  turned  their  slaves  on 
to  aqueducts  when  there  wasn't  anything  else  for 
them  to  do." 

The  German  in  the  mackintosh  improves  on 
acquaintance ;  he  lent  me  Freeman's  Sicily  to-day, 
which  he  apparently  knows  inside  out.  I  am  not 
prepared  to  follow  him  in  this  matter,  as  I  prefer 
my  own  Sicily  even  to  Freeman's.  Besides,  Free- 
man makes  you  feel  such  a  fool,  which  is  always  an 
uncomfortable  sensation  for  one  of  my  age.  Doris 
is  still  the  only  young  thing  in  the  hotel,  and  we 
are  one  and  all  her  willing  slaves.  The  waiters 
reserve  the  best  cuts  off  the  joint  for  her,  if  Sicilian 
animals  have  such  things.  Their  anatomy  is  never 
divulged  by  the  waiter,  whose  one  idea  is  to  get 
something  on  to  each  plate  somehow,  as  equally 
apportioned  as  possbile.  Even  the  old  general  pro- 
duced a  pot  of  clean,  white,  lardy-looking  honey, 
which  had  come  all  the  way  from  Milan,  as  a 
present  for  Doris. 

Yours  in  haste, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February  21s t,  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

I  would  amazingly  have  liked  to  know  and 
see  how  London  behaved  when  the  news  came  that 
Methuen  had  entered  Kimberley  without  firing  a 
shot,  and  that  the  first  train  ran  through  from  the 
Cape  last  night.  We  drank  a  bottle  of  Madame 
Politi 's  best  Marsala  on  the  strength  of  it,  and  the 
general  let  himself  go  on  the  Indian  Mutiny.  He 
was  struggling  over  the  announcement  of  the  relief 
in  the  Catania  paper  when  Doris  came  up  the 
front  portico  steps.  He  called  to  her  to  come  and 
listen. 

The  old  boy  read  till  tears  blinded  his  eyes  and 
his  glasses  were  too  dim  to  see  through.  Without  a 
word,  Doris  took  the  paper  gently  from  his  hand 
and  gave  it  to  me,  and  I  took  up  the  good  news 
where  he  left  off.  Doris  stood  with  her" two  hands 
clasped  through  the  general's  arm.  Rumanio  was 
listening  at  a  respectful  distance.  The  general 
beckoned  to  him. 

"  Come  and  hear,  Rumanio,  come  and  hear." 

"It  is  also  reported,"  I  continued,  M  that 
General  Cronje  has  been  taken  prisoner  with 
twelve  thousand  men,  but  the  report  is  not  con- 
firmed at  the  seat  of  war." 

"  Mio  Dio,  Rumanio,  Mio  Dio !  I  wish  I  could 
live  in  England."  The  words  broke  from  the 
general's  lips  like  a  cry  of  pent-up  years.     "  It's 

57 


58        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

better  to  live  but  one  more  year  in  England  in  times 
like  these  than  to  drag  out  ten  here." 

Rumanio  stepped  up  to  him  and  took  his  arm. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  to  my  room,"  he  said. 
M  Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you,  for  reading.  My 
dear,"  he  said,  touching  Doris'  hand  gently,  "  I'm 
a  silly  old  man,  who  has  outlived  his  day.  If  they 
would  only  let  me  die  in  England  instead  of 
existing  here  all  alone !" 

I  looked  at  Doris  :  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Dear  old  general !"  she  said,  when  he  had  left, 
leaning  on  Rumanio 's  arm.  "  How  cruel  old  age 
is !  In  spite  of  the  Hyblaean  honey  and  the  sun- 
shine, apparently  London  is  better  than  Sicily." 
She  turned  her  eyes  to  the  garden,  green  and  gay, 
summer  reigning  over  the  land  while  it  was  still 
only  the  second  month  in  the  year.  "  To  be  a 
soldier  at  heart  and  to  have  outlived  your  physical 
energies  must  be  so  humiliating;  his  heart  is  just 
as  fresh  as  ever.  Now  he  is  going  away  upstairs  to 
talk  to  Rumanio  of  the  old  Garibaldian  days,  or  to 
imagine  himself  one  of  the  gay  crowd  in  his  club 
in  London.     Old  age  is  cruel,  cruel !" 

"  Dear  child,"  I  said,  "  don't  imagine  he  feels 
half  as  keenly  about  it  as  you  do.  Old  age  has  its 
blessings.  Our  senses  for  sorrow,  pain,  pleasure 
are  not  so  poignant ;  gradually,  gradually  our  pulses 
weaken  and  our  feelings  grow  less  keen." 

"  You  say  our,"  she  said,  "  just  as  if  you  were 
the  general's  age ;  he  is  a  very  kind  old  man,  while 
you  are "     She  paused.     "  You  are " 

"  Are  what?"  I  asked.  "  Just  a  middling  old 
one?" 

"  Yes,  just  half  and  half,"  she  said,  with  mis- 
chievous eyes.  "  The  half  that  is  old  gives  you 
some  pleasant  privileges,  while  the  half  that  is 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        59 

young  makes  you  good  company  for  a  girl  like 
me." 

"  What  sort  of  a  girl  are  you?"  I  said.  "  Tell 
me,  what  do  you  imagine  you  are  like?" 

u  I  don't  know,"  she  said;  M  I  never  thought 
about  anything  so  silly,  but  evidently  you  have, 
sir." 

"  Why  do  you  think  that?" 

"  Because  you  have  drawn  a  me-ish  sort  of  girl 
in  your  story.  Do  you  know,"  she  said  suddenly, 
leading  our  steps  towards  the  bridge  in  the  garden 
which  faces  the  old  monastery,  now  a  poor-house, 
"  I  want  you,  when  you  come  to  the  part  of  the 
story  where  the  old  man  sees  that  Phyllis  loves  the 
younger  one, — I  want  you  to  make  her  fall  really 
in  love  with  the  old  hero,  just  because  he  is  willing 
to  give  her  up.  Most  women  would,  you  know; 
they  hate  being  given  up  too  easily." 

M  But  the  other  is  the  true  version,"  I  said; 
u  our  story  was  one  taken  from  real  life." 

"  Never  mind  about  that,"  she  said  u  let's  make 
a  nice  romance  of  our  own.  Just  make  her  a 
grander  sort  of  girl,  one  who  would  appreciate  the 
deeper  love  of  an  older  man." 

"  Where  shall  I  find  my  model?"  I  said.  "  I 
don't  believe  any  woman  I  ever  knew  would  have 
behaved  as  you  wish  this  one  to." 

"I'm  certain  there  are  lots.  I  never  liked  her. 
I  wish  you  would  change  her." 

u  No,"  I  said,  so  determinedly  that  she  looked 
at  me  in  surprise.  "  No,  I  am  quite  satisfied  with 
her.     I  refuse  to  change  her  one  bit." 

11  After  all,  it  is  my  story,"  she  said,  with  pre- 
tended dignity ;  u  I  only  asked  you  to  write  it." 

u  I  think  he  was  a  selfish  old  fool,"  I  said. 
"  He  took  advantage  of  the  girl's  lonely  position. 
She  was  almost  dependent  upon  him  for  society. 


60        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Besides,  he  saved  her  life  upon  one  occasion,  and 
then  proceeded  to  ruin  it  by  asking  her  to  marry 
him ;  it  was  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  her  youth 
and  gratitude." 

11  That's  all  you  know  about  women  and  girls," 
she  said.  "  Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  the  part  of  you 
that  is  young,  what  the  half  of  you  that  is  old  ought 
to  have  known  already,  that  a  woman  never  for- 
gives a  man  for  not  asking  her  to  marry  him  when 
he  has  deliberately  led  her  to  expect  it." 

"  Did  his  attention  lead  her  to  expect  it?" 

"  Haven't  you  made  him  seek  her  society  from 
morning  till  night?  First  he  appealed  to  her  by 
teaching  her  the  curious  native  customs,  and  ex- 
plaining their  meanings,  and  educating  her 
generally.  There  are  men  who  attack  a  woman's 
heart  through  her  intellect;  he  was  one  of  them. 
I  think  he  showed  her  very  plainly  that  he  cared  for 
her.  A  man  of  his  age  doesn't  generally  spend  his 
entire  time  with  a  young  girl  unless  he  cares  for  her 
a  good  deal." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  between  us  for  a 
few  minutes ;  I  was  thinking  of  many  things  both 
wise  and  foolish. 

The  old  monastery  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 
built  up  sheer  with  chips  of  the  quarries,  looked 
grim  and  strong  in  the  evening  light,  a  very  fortress 
of  Mediaeval  impregnability.  I  turned  my  eyes 
from  the  picture  of  its  fallen  greatness.  Once  a 
fortified  monastery,  commanding  a  wide  view  of  the 
sea  from  its  fine  battlements,  to-day  a  wretched 
shelter  for  the  starving  poor  of  Syracuse.  I  stole  a 
glance  at  the  girl  by  my  side ;  it  may  have  been  my 
fancy,  or  a  trick  played  by  the  radiance  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  but  I  thought  I  detected  a  blush  lingering 
there.  The  next  moment  I  knew  I  was  mistaken, 
for  in  the  most  casual  voice  in  the  world,  she  said  : 


T3       • 
<V     C 


*  8 

6  L— ' 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        61 

"  AXbirgo  dei  Pdveri  is  a  much  nicer  name  than 
our  poor-house.  It  is  not  so  insulting.  Come 
with  me  :  I  want  to  examine  the  courtyard.  We 
have  gazed  with  admiring  eyes  at  the  building  for 
weeks  now,  and  have  never  been  energetic  enough 
to  look  at  its  courtyard." 

"  Cloisters,"  I  said,  correcting  her.  "  Cloisters, 
where  the  monks  used  to  walk  and  meditate." 

"  I  beg  their  pardons,"  she  said,  M  but  somehow 
in  my  mind  monasteries  are  connected  with  soldiers, 
not  monks,  and  soldiers  drill  in  courtyards,  not 
cloisters." 

As  we  stood  in  front  of  the  AlbSrgo  dei  Poveri, 
Doris  said  : 

"  This  is  one  of  the  buildings  I  like  best  in  all 
Syracuse.  I  don't  care  what  its  date  is — I'm  tired 
of  dates  B.C.  I  like  grim,  Mediaeval  a.d.  things 
best.  That  dear  little  Idggia  perched  up  there  in 
the  left-hand  top  corner !  You  can  see  the  blue 
sky  right  through  its  arches!  And  that  old 
woman,  too,  is  dignified,  sitting  there  against  the 
grey  stone;  even  paupers  do  the  right  thing  in 
Sicily,  they  never  spoil  a  picturesque  scene.  It  is 
strange  that  such  a  high  building  should  have  no 
windows  except  at  the  top,  isn't  it?" 

"  It  was  a  fortified  monastery,"  I  said;  "  that 
was  for  safety.  That  little  stone  bracket,  as  you 
describe  it,  was  a  watch-tower ;  from  that  point  the 
soldier-monks  could  command  a  view  of  the  whole 
bay.     It  was  a  splendid  position." 

"  Ppor  monks!"  said  Doris.  "  To-day  their 
cloisters  are  filled  with  slowly  starving  poor,  while 
their  barbican  and  watch-towers  are  used  as  drying- 
lines  for  the  State  paupers'  rags.  Poor  proud 
Sicily !  Poor  proud  monks  !  How  has  your  great- 
ness fallen!" 

5 


62        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  The  poverty  and  philosophy  of  Sicily  are  mar- 
vellous," I  said.  "  They  have  learnt  to  do  with- 
out so  much  that  they  expect  too  little  of  life.  It 
is  their  philosophy  of  doing  without  which  has 
killed  ambition.  In  England  life  is  scarcely  bear- 
able unless  a  man  has  a  certain  amount  of  bodily 
comforts,  and  he  has  to  work  to  get  them.  But 
you  do  not  feel  the  pangs  of  hunger  so  keenly  in  the 
sunshine  of  Sicily.  If  there  is  no  work  for  you  to 
do,  you  sleep  in  the  warm  places  and  forget  your 
troubles.  A  Sicilian  peasant  can  live  like  a  prince 
upon  what  an  English  workman  starves  or  throws 
away.  I  verily  believe  that  what  the  poor  of  Eng- 
land waste  would  support  in  plenty  all  the  paupers 
in  Italy." 

One  pound  of  goat's  flesh  boiled  down  into  soup 
forms  an  appetising  and  pleasant  accompaniment 
to  a  few  soldis'  worth  of  polenta  for  three  days  in  a 
Sicilian's  housekeeper's  economy.  How  far  would 
a  pound  of  beef  go  in  a  poor  London  home? 
Polenta  they  despise,  and  macaroni  they  never  eat. 
They  are  conservative  in  tastes,  however  socialistic 
their  views  in  politics  may  be.  Beef  is  an  English- 
man's proper  food,  without  which  he  must  starve, 
in  his  own  estimation.  In  many  people's  minds 
I  believe  this  beef -eating  quality  is  considered 
rather  a  fine  one.  The  Englishman  is  a  fighting 
beast — he  requires  animal  meat  to  support  him. 
It  is  all  very  well  for  the  Italians,  who  live  in  the 
sun  and  play  cards,  to  live  on  macaroni;  but  a 
Briton  requires  something  more.  And  yet  it  has 
been  proved  that  the  French,  for  instance,  who  eat 
almost  as  little  meat  as  the  Italians,  and  are  models 
of  domestic  economy,  find  that  it  is  possible  to 
endure  the  fatigues  of  long  marches  without  a  beef- 
fed  system. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        63 

The  English  newspapers  have  come  very  ir- 
regularly for  the  last  few  days,  which  is  most 
annoying,  for  we  have  never  wanted  them  more. 
The  one  paper  [The  Standard]  which  this  hotel 
supports  is  worn  to  a  rag  before  ever  I  see  it. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,  1900. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

Thanks  for  your  last  letter ;  it  was  satisfying 
and  to  the  point.  We  were  hungry  for  a  personal 
description  of  our  national  rejoicings  over  Kimber- 
ley.  I  read  your  letter  to  Doris.  She  has  grown 
to  expect  that  I  should  share  them  all  with  her. 
Poor  child!  her  letters  are  few  and  far  between. 

"  Do  let  us  read  it  together,"  she  said,  "  on  the 
seat  sheltered  by  the  lavender-hedge."  When  I 
had  finished  she  sighed  : 

"  I  suppose  we  can't  have  everything,  but  I'd 
have  loved  to  see  you  behaving  like  a  lunatic  in 
London.  But  then,"  she  added,  "  we  shouldn't 
be  sitting  here  in  this  glorious  sunshine,  watching 
Madame  Politi 's  delightfully  German  sheets  drying 
on  the  rosemary-bushes." 

We  have  had  to  take  refuge  from  the  sun  under 
a  pink  geranium-hedge!  Doris  says  that  she 
means  to  write  a  book  called  "  Doris  and  her 
Sicilian  Garden!"  "  It  won't  be  so  clever  as  the 
1  German  Garden,'  but  the  flowers  will  be  much 
prettier."  "  '  Elizabeth  '  has  made  all  England 
grow  rockets  and  plant  rosebeds  with  pansy  carpets. 
Every  one  expected  great  things  of  these  rockets, 
but  they  have  turned  out  to  be  the  most  wretched 
frauds,  not  worth  a  wild  purple  scabious  or  a  self- 
respecting  marigold.  Elizabeth  simply  used  the 
word  for  fun  or  for  effect." 

64 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        65 

We  have  actually  done  a  little  more  methodical 
sight-seeing  since  I  last  wrote.  We  visited  yester- 
day the  catacombs  of  San  Giovanni,  which  are  not 
ten  minutes'  walk  from  here.  Doris  says  every- 
thing is  not  ten  minutes'  walk  from  here  when  you 
start  out ! 

There  is  a  small  monastery  containing  monks, 
not  soldiers,  attached  to  the  church,  which  is  one 
of  the  oldest  and  most  beautiful  in  Sicily. 

We  were  charmed  with  the  building  from  the 
pure  beauty  of  the  ensemble.  The  church  faces 
you  with  surprising  elegance  as  you  walk  up  a 
straight,  white  road,  white-walled  and  dusty. 

Knowing  nothing  beforehand  of  its  architectural 
merits  or  of  its  exceedingly  ancient  foundations,  we 
both  loved  it  from  the  first  moment  we  saw  it.  It 
is  one  of  those  objects  of  beauty  which  even  the 
ignorant  must  recognise  and  admire. 

The  lower  church,  which  is  built  in  the  form  of  a 
Greek  cross,  holds  the  tomb  of  St.  Marcian,  who- 
ever he  may  be. 

Doris  says :  "  When  you  begin  doing  early 
Christian  Sicily  you  feel  as  hopeless  about  the  minor 
saints  as  you  do  about  the  Pagan  gods  in  the  Epoca 
Greca;  you  never  get  away  from  your  ignorance." 

She  was  well  pleased  that  a  villainous-looking 
monk  escorted  us  over  the  catacombs.  He  looked 
as  if  he  had  been  born  and  bred  there  and  had  never 
known  God's  air.  He  carried  a  fine  swinging  iron 
lamp,  which  gave  forth  more  smoke  than  light. 
The  catacombs  are  very  large,  and  more  imposing, 
I  think,  than  any  in  Rome.  They  are  cut  out  of 
rock,  which  is  rather  superior  for  catacombs,  I 
fancy,  and  have  three  stories.  I  should  not  have 
cared  to  reside  in  the  bottom  flats  of  these  man- 
sions ;  they  are  much  too  difficult  of  access  to  visit 


66        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

to-day,  and  seem  to  extend  an  unnecessary  way 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

Doris,  as  usual,  wanted  to  know  much  more  than 
the  ignorant  monk  could  tell  us.  He  had  only  the 
vaguest  knowledge  of  the  place,  and  did  little  else 
than  point  out  "  tombs  of  the  noble  families.' ' 

"I'm  tired  to  death  of  tombs,  especially  of  noble 
families;  it  is  tombs,  tombs,  everywhere.  Show 
me  where  the  people  lived  when  they  sought  refuge 
here.  Had  they  no  place  apart  from  these  awful 
passages  lined  with  their  dead,  no  rooms  of  any 
kind?" 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said.  "  If  all  these 
Christians  were  buried  here  in  the  times  of  the 
persecution,  they  couldn't  possibly  have  lived  all 
together  in  these  narrow  passages ;  it  wasn't  proper 
for  saints  and  martyrs." 

The  monk  shook  his  wicked  head  and  blinked 
an  evil  eye,  then  snuffed  the  candle  with  his  fat 
fingers.  He  had  lived  above  the  catacombs  all  his 
life,  he  was  entrusted  to  show  tourists  over  them, 
but  he  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  know  any- 
thing about  them.  He  had  never  given  half  an 
hour's  thought  to  them  in  his  life. 

When  we  were  in  the  crypt  of  St.  Marcian  an 
exquisite  chanting  suddenly  began.  Doris  left  me 
and  hurried  up  the  steps  back  into  the  church, 
which  she  found  completely  empty.  The  monk 
scuttled  after  her. 

"  You  have  not  seen  the  tomb  of  St.  Marcian, 
signorina,"  he  said.  "  The  blessed  martyr  was 
bound  to  one  of  these  granite  columns,  and " 

"  Piano !  Piano  I"  exclaimed  Doris  impatiently. 
"  That  chanting  is  lovelv.  Where  is  it  coming 
from?" 

"  It  is  only  the  brothers  singing,"  he  said.  "  St. 
Marcian,  in  his  youth " 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        67 

"  Piano  I"  Doris  urged.  "  Show  me  where 
your  brothers  are  singing.  I  have  no  use  for  St. 
Marcian,  but  I  love  music." 

We  passed  through  the  empty  and  deserted 
church  to  a  little  door  on  the  right,  which  led  into 
a  charming  monastery  garden,  full  of  overgrown 
flowers.  The  monk  pointed  to  a  tiny  chapel  almost 
hidden  by  the  high  garden  steps  and  the  masses  of 
flowers.  He  motioned  us  to  enter,  himself  instantly 
kneeling  down  and  dropping  into  prayer.  If  these 
monks  have  nothing  to  do,  they  mutter  with  their 
red  lips  unintelligible  Latin  prayers,  with  about  as 
much  meaning  in  the  action  as  a  goat  puts  into 
chewing  its  cud. 

The  chapel  was  a  whitewashed  building,  not 
much  bigger  than  a  cottage  room.  There  were 
two  cheaply  draped  altars,  one  with  a  brightly 
coloured  print  of  our  Saviour  hanging  over  it. 
The  other,  and  more  popular  of  the  two,  had  a  fine 
wax  figure  of  our  Lady  on  it ;  these  were  the  only 
objects  in  the  chapel  to  relieve  its  pauper  bareness. 
There  were  no  lights,  no  flowers,  no  votive  offer- 
ings, and  no  priest  or  monk  officiating  at  the  altars, 
although  the  chapel  was  full  of  poor  worshippers. 
But  I  have  never  heard  such  a  marvellous  effect  of 
sound  as  filled  that  little  church.  It  came  from  a 
chamber  overhead  where  the  monks  were  singing. 
It  was  wonderful  Latin  chanting,  full  of  music  and 
rich  in  harmony.  It  was  solely  vocal.  The  simple 
congregation  was  so  interested  in  Doris,  whose 
pretty  hat  and  dainty  dress  were  affairs  of  un- 
expected novelty  in  their  midst,  that  they  made  no 
pretence  at  praying  any  more.  The  women  smiled 
pleasantly  at  her,  while  the  children  stood  on  the 
seats  open-mouthed  in  admiration. 

It  is  pleasant  to  see  Doris  inspire  these  gentle 
people  with  admiration;  she  takes  their  homage 


68        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

quite  naturally  and  understands  them  admirably. 
If  they  wish  to  look  at  her  chain,  loaded  with  foolish 
charms,  it  gives  her  great  pleasure  to  show  it  to 
them.     Their  childish  curiosity  never  annoys  her. 

"  '  Let  'em  all  come,'  "  she  said,  smiling  as  they 
trooped  out  of  the  church  after  her.  "  If  such 
little  things  give  them  pleasure,  surely  we  can  be 
patient.  I  can't  understand  people  resenting  the 
native  simplicity  and  love  of  beauty  in  these  people. 
We  look  at  the  shop  windows  in  Bond  Street ;  they 
look  at  me.     What  is  the  difference?" 

From  the  high  steps  in  the  garden  we  saw  the 
monks  in  their  brown  frocks  standing  in  the  low 
upper  chamber,  singing  with  very  wide-open 
mouths.  I  was  glad  to  see  the  ecclesiastical 
brethren;  those  with  the  clean-shaven  patch  on 
their  heads  of  strong  hair  were  undoubtedly  men  of 
superior  mental  calibre  to  the  dirty  lay-brother  who 
showed  us  the  catacombs.  At  the  end  of  the 
garden  there  is  an  outside  staircase  which  leads  to  a 
picturesque  stone  belfry.  As  we  entered  the 
church  early  in  the  afternoon  an  old  monk  was 
ascending  it.  After  taking  a  good  look  at  us,  he 
commenced  clapping  the  bell  for  service.  Church 
bells  in  Sicily  are  not  rung,  they  are  beaten  on  the 
outside  with  a  stick — which  is  not  musical.  The 
rose  window  of  the  church  is  well  worthy  of  inspec- 
tion. Doris  and  I  have  often  admired  it  from  the 
point  where  you  can  see  it  best — across  the  orange 
grove  on  a  far  white  road ;  you  are  too  close  stand- 
ing under  it  to  get  its  full  beauty. 

On  our  way  home  Doris  again  remarked  upon 
the  total  absence  in  Sicily  of  rural  cottages.  The 
inhabitants,  even  the  small  farmers,  live  in  the  cities 
on  the  plains,  or  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains  in 
the  ancient  hill-towns.  You  very  rarely  see  a  snug 
little  homestead,  or,  indeed,  any  form  of  domestic 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        69 

building  even  in  the  highly  cultivated  plains. 
This  arises  from  two  causes :  first,  the  fear  of 
malaria  attaching  to  the  plain ;  and,  secondly,  the 
ancient  custom  of  herding  together  in  cities  for 
safety  from  raiding  brigands. 

"  If  these  two  dangers  have  given  us  the  lovely 
mountain  cities,  I  can't  be  sorry,"  Doris  said.  M  I 
must  live  in  one  before  I  quit  Sicily.  I  think,  to 
look  out  in  the  morning  and  find  yourself  perched 
up  in  a  little  town  flirting  with  the  clouds,  would 
be  perfect.  Besides,  if  the  people  lived  scattered 
about  the  country  on  their  farms  or  in  small  villages 
we  shouldn't  see  them  in  their  great  blue-hooded 
cloaks,  riding  on  their  black  donkeys  up  to  their 
hill-cities  every  evening,  should  we  ?  There  would 
be  fewer  fifteenth-century  pictures  in  the  landscape 
for  us  to  gush  and  '  Oh ! '  over.  Fancy  all  this 
lovely  country,  sacred  every  inch  of  it,  spoilt  by  an 
ugly  nineteenth-century  prosaic  people,  instead  of 
the  dear  delightful  creatures  who  aren't  the  least 
aware  that  whatever  they  do  or  don't  do  is  a 
pleasure  for  an  artist  to  look  at,  except  when  they 
have  a  little  money  and  buy  a  hat  in  Catania ;  then 
they  are  perfectly  certain  to  be  quite  wrong!" 

While  the  men  are  busy  working  in  the  fields  the 
donkey  lies  down  with  the  dog  and  helps  to  guard 
the  wine  gourd  and  the  scanty  food.  For  even  a 
donkey  in  Sicily  can't  expect  to  eat  thistles  all  day 
long,  he,  too,  must  "  do  without."  The  men,  as 
well  as  the  women,  I  notice,  prefer  riding  sideways 
on  their  beasts,  all  of  which,  of  course,  have  no 
saddles;  perhaps  that  is  the  reason.  The  young 
boys  sit  right  out  on  the  stern  of  the  animal,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  human  boy  at  Happy  Margate. 
Every  country  grows  the  same  sort  of  boys,  I 
fancy ;  only  here  in  Sicily  they  are  beautiful  as  well 
as  human. 


70        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

The  sirocco  is  clearing;  to-morrow  we  may  see 
Etna.  It  has  almost  become  a  phantom  mountain 
to  us ;  we  do  not  believe  it  really  exists,  or  that  it 
can  be  seen  from  Syracuse.  But  Madame  Politi 
says  that  it  will  soon  seem  so  near  that  we  shall 
want  to  climb  it  every  morning  before  breakfast. 

I  must  thank  you  for  reminding  me  of  Lang's 
Theocritus.  Theocritus  is  supposed  to  have  had  a 
garden  in  the  latomia  under  the  hotel.  It  is  the 
coolest  place  in  Syracuse  during  the  summer  heats, 
so  Doris  will  enjoy  it  immensely.  Will  you  ask 
your  London  bookseller  to  post  it  me  here  ?  Syra- 
cuse does  not  support  a  regular  bookshop.  When 
I  reach  Palermo  I  will  send  you  a  case  of  Ingham 
&  Whitaker's  best  "  Marsala  ";  a  fair  exchange, 
I  think. 

Yours 
J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  near  Syracuse. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

A  terrible  storm  of  wind  and  rain  has  kept 
us  prisoners  in  the  hotel  to-day,  with  the  result 
that  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  gossip  one  way 
and  another. 

You  will  remember  my  mentioning  the  three 
ladies  of  Cranf  ord  ?  Doris  told  me  that  Miss  Perse- 
phine  confided  in  her  to-day  that  they  had  come  to 
Sicily  on  account  of  her  youngest  sister's  health. 

"  Is  she  an  invalid?"  Doris  asked.  u  I  hope  I 
have  not  tired  her  when  I  have  taken  her  out  with 
me.     I  am  a  good  walker." 

"  She  is  gradually  recovering  from  a  great 
shock." 

"  Your  mother's  sudden  death,  I  suppose?" 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear — we  all  accepted  that  as  God's 
will;  we  have  learnt  to  say,  '  Thy  will  be  done.' 
It  was  a  much  more  cruel  blow.  None  of  us 
approved  of  the  affair  from  the  very  first.  He 
treated  our  poor  darling  shamefully.  My  father 
would  never  let  us  see  anything  of  men  afterwards." 

"  Then  it  happened  when  your  father  was  alive  ?" 
Doris  said,  remembering  how  they  had  mentioned 
once  that  their  father  had  been  dead  almost  twenty 
years. 

"  Yes,  it  almost  killed  him,  my  dear,  the  slight 
put  upon  his  favourite  child.  Two  weeks  before 
the  marriage  a  girl  who  was  to  have  been  one  of 
Rosina's  bridesmaids,  a  pretty  child  of  eighteen, 
whom  Rosina  loved  very  dearly,  came  to  pay  us  a 

71 


72        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

visit.  She  had  only  been  our  guest  ten  days  when 
she  eloped  with  Rosina's  lover.  The  cake  was 
ordered,  my  dear,  and  I  had  twice  been  fitted  for 
my  bridesmaid's  suit.  We  had  to  pay  for  every- 
thing." 

"  Poor  Miss  Rosina!"  Doris  said.  M  And  al- 
though this  happened  eighteen  years  ago,  she  has 
not  got  over  it  yet,  poor  heart." 

"  It  may  seem  a  very  long  time  to  you,  my 
dear,"  Miss  Persephine  replied  hotly,  "  but  I  as- 
sure you  my  sister's  pain  and  humiliation  are  just  as 
keen  as  ever.  We  do  all  we  can  to  make  her  forget 
him." 

"  Perhaps  she  does  not  want  to  forget  him : 
women  often  prefer  nursing  a  dead  passion  to  liv- 
ing without  one  entirely." 

Miss  Persephine  sighed. 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  that.  And  it 
is  hard  to  believe  that  all  men  are  bad,  my  dear ; 
for  surely  the  Lord  would  have  known  and  made 
some  suitable  substitutes  for  good  women. ' ' 

"  There  are  curates,"  Doris  said. 

"  In  the  States  we  don't  reckon  them  as  you  do 
in  England,  my  child." 

u  Isn't  this  pathetic?  These  women's  hearts  are 
terrible  things  to  interfere  with.  Men  break  them 
and  mend  them,  but  never  understand  them." 

Doris  says  that  Miss  Rosina  has  merely  eaten 
and  slept  and  lived  under  protest  for  almost  twenty 
years.  She  has  lived  because  physically  she  can't 
die.  There  is  something  very  frail  and  feminine 
about  her  appearance.  And  really,  compared  with 
the  Germans  and  her  sisters,  she  manages  to  convey 
a  certain  impression  of  youth — until  Doris  sits  down 
beside  her.  But  Doris,  with  her  April  freshness  of 
limb  and  elastic  pose,  makes  the  contrast  cruel. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        73 

If  age  is  pathetic  sometimes,  I  think  so  is  youth, 
in  its  sublime  ignorance  of  its  power. 

Miss  Rosina's  hands,  so  finely  lined,  look  like 
bird's  claws  in  the  girl's  slim,  firm,  pink-tipped 
fingers.  It  was  unkind  to  look  at  the  two  hands 
clasped  together. 

But,  to  continue  my  gossip,  this  evening,  when 
the  two  elder  sisters  were  sleeping  after  dinner, 
Miss  Rosina  found  her  way  to  Doris's  room  and 
showed  her,  very  shyly,  a  painted  miniature  of  the 
man  who  had  broken  her  heart — the  miniature  of 
the  man  who  had  filled  her  life  with  an  undying 
romance. 

"  You  must  promise  not  to  tell  my  sister,"  she 
said  anxiously,  as  she  unwrapped  the  picture  from 
its  soft  silk  covering. 

u  But  do  you  mean  to  say  that  neither  of  them 
knows  you  have  his  portrait  ?" 

u  No,  oh  no,"  she  said,  blushing  like  a  girl ;  "  I 
have  kept  it  hidden  away  all  these  years.  They  are 
so  hard  on  him,  my  dear,  and  I,  for  their  sakes,  have 
to  pretend  that  I  hate  his  very  name.  But  when  I 
am  alone  with  him,"  and  she  touched  the  picture 
lovingly,  "  I  can  live  again  in  the  old  days ;  he  is 
then  to  me  the  man  I  loved  and  trusted,  the  man 
I  never  doubted." 

"  Dear  Miss  Rosina!"  Doris  said.  "  I  could 
never  love  like  that." 

"  Dear  heart !  Every  moment  of  the  day  except 
those  which  I  can  steal  alone  with  him  is  a  weariness 
and  an  effort.  I  try  to  take  an  interest  in  things, 
indeed  I  do,  but  the  whole  world  is  empty.  I 
thought  perhaps  if  I  got  stronger  I  might  forget. 
But  I  can't — I  never  shall;  he  is  with  me  every 
day." 

"  Forget !"  Doris  cried  to  me.  M  Fancy  having 
kept  her  youthful  love  warm  and  tender  for  almost 


74        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

twenty  years !  Fancy  any  one  loving  and  feeling 
like  that!  And  I  dared  to  laugh  at  her.  How 
hard  women  can  be,  even  nice  ones,  like  me!  I 
used  to  say  that  the  undamaged  parts  of  the  whole 
three  wouldn't  make  one  healthy  woman.  I  hate 
myself  for  saying  such  things,  but  sometimes  I  can't 
help  it;  they  just  come." 

There  was  this  excuse,  that  one  of  the  three  is 
lame,  another  blind  in  one  eye,  and  the  youngest 
is  generally  shattered. 

"  And  the  sentiment  of  Miss  Rosina's  dress," 
Doris  continued,  "  isn't  it  touching?  The  short 
bodices  and  the  flower-sprigged  skirts  which  he 
used  to  like,  no  doubt.  Quite  ladylike  and  un- 
obtrusive, but  so  youthful  and  so  remembering." 

I'm  afraid  that  you  will  say  that  this  is  a  short 
letter  all  about  nothing,  yet  it  is  merely  a  part  of 
our  life  here.  For  even  the  garden  and  the  lavender 
walk  are  subtly  connected  in  our  minds  with  the 
figures  of  the  three  sisters.  And  the  garden  is  so 
much  a  part  of  our  daily  life,  that  if  you  are  to 
understand  the  one  you  must  be  introduced  to  the 
others.  I  have  noticed  that  Herr  Mackintosh  has 
accompanied  the  sisters  more  than  once  in  their 
walks  farther  than  the  lavender  groves.  Miss 
Adonaey  is  very  interested  in  tracing  out  the 
boundaries  of  the  five  divisions  of  Syracuse.  Ach- 
radina  spreads  itself  out  to  the  right  of  our  garden, 
where  the  sun  sets,  and  where  the  goats  make 
music  with  their  hundred  bells  all  day  long. 
Epipolae  is  a  desert  of  rocks,  full  of  the  remains 
of  ancient  Greek  houses,  and  lies  directly  behind 
our  house.  Doris  and  I  have  made  many  pleasant 
excursions  to  Epipolae  in  search  of  the  short  blue 
iris  which  seems  to  delight  in  seeking  soil  for  its 
roots  in  the  crevices  of  the  white  rocks.  It 
flourishes  best  in  mid-February.     While  we  have 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        75 

been  seeking  for  this  brightest  of  blue  flowers,  we 
have  stumbled  against  many  scores  of  rock  founda- 
tions of  houses,  and,  not  very  intelligently,  I'm 
afraid,  we  have  tried  to  trace  out  their  ground  plans. 
The  front  entrance  is  always  very  clear,  also  the 
dimensions  of  the  building,  but  little  else.  Never 
in  any  case  have  we  found  a  house  with  one  stone 
upon  the  top  of  another.  No  walls  of  the  rudest 
kind  are  left  standing.  Ortygia  is  a  beautiful  rock- 
girt  island,  and,  I  believe,  is  the  most  ancient  settle- 
ment of  the  five  cities.  Ortygia  was  the  original 
Syracuse  out  of  which  the  others  sprang.  Neapolis 
and  Tyche  I  feel  rather  vague  about,  although  I 
have  heard  Miss  Adonaey  and  Herr  Mackintosh 
laying  down  their  plans  to  their  own  entire  satis- 
faction. 

Herr  Mackintosh  has  a  German  admiration  for 
Miss  Adonaey 's  intelligence,  but  the  man  in  him 
hankers  after  Miss  Rosina. 

Modern  Syracuse — modern  in  the  comparative 
sense  of  the  word — lies,  I  think  I  have  said,  on  the 
island  of  Ortygia,  which  is  connected  by  draw- 
bridges with  the  ancient  rotdndo  on  the  borders  of 
Achradina.  This  is  highly  satisfactory  to  the  two 
eldest  American  sisters,  who  are  as  keen  after 
ancient  remains  as  a  dachshund  after  truffles. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi, 

February,  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

Heaven  grant  it  is  true  that  the  Catania 
paper  reports  that  Ladysmith  is  relieved.  I  can 
scarcely  believe  it  is  correct.  It  is  the  way  with 
Italian  journalists  to  make  the  tide  of  victory  run 
strong  on  either  side.  A  few  weeks  ago  the  Boers 
were  driving  us  into  the  sea ;  to-day,  because  Kim- 
berley  is  relieved,  and  we  have  had — thank  God ! — 
some  few  important  victories,  they  are  confident 
that  Ladysmith  is  relieved,  and  that  Cronje  has 
completely  surrendered.  I  am  afraid  it  is  all  too 
good  to  be  true.  The  Germans  still  keep  Slid 
Africa  tabooed,  and  smile  with  all  the  superiority 
of  the  Fatherland  at  our  successes.  The  clever 
German  woman  who  told  such  good  stories  has 
gone ;  we  miss  her  very  much.  I  wish  you  could 
have  known  her.  She  was  as  like  a  cook  as  any  real 
princess,  and  as  amusing  as  Dr.  Johnson's  Table- 
talk. 

Doris  was  vastly  excited  to-day,  and  dragged  me 
off  from  my  writing  to  see  how  our  excavations 
were  proceeding  in  the  field  where  the  oxen  were 
ploughing.  Alas  !  the  gentle  oxen  will  never  again 
tread  that  sea-girt  field,  for  the  excavators  have 
laid  bare  a  vast  area  of  tombs. 

"  I  thought  you  were  tired  of  ancient  tombs,"  I 
said. 

"  Oh,  it's  different  when  they  are  your  own 
tombs,"    she    answered    laughingly.     "  Besides, 

76 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        77 

look  what  the  men  have  given  me — three  lovely 
coins  and  a  terra-cotta  lamp !  No  one  can  say 
that  these  antiques  were  made  in  Birmingham, 
buried  in  Syracuse,  and  dug  up  by  an  American 
tourist.  They  have  been  buried  all  these  centuries 
and  centuries !  My  hands  are  the  next  to  touch 
this  little  lamp  since  some  Greek  girl  used  it,  and 
had  it  buried  with  her,  as  a  sort  of  night-light,  I 
suppose.  The  moment  is  sacred  when  you  and  I 
only  look  for  the  first  time  upon  things  which  have 
been  hidden  all  these  centuries  from  the  world. 
Things  grow  vulgarised  under  the  eyes  of  tourists 
in  museums." 

By  the  time  we  arrived  on  the  scene  of  action, 
Signor  Orsi,  the  director  of  the  Syracuse  Museum, 
was  there  in  person,  supervising  the  excavation. 

Doris  pocketed  her  coins  and  concealed  her  lamp 
under  a  bushel ;  she  had  no  mind  to  get  the  work- 
man into  trouble.  But  it  was  quite  unnecessary, 
for  one  of  the  men  immediately  went  up  to  Signor 
Orsi  and  told  him  that  the  English  lady,  who  had 
come  on  the  forbidden  ground,  would  like  to  know 
the  correct  date  of  the  coins  that  she  had  just 
picked  up,  if  he  would  kindly  tell  her. 

One  proved  to  be  about  the  third  century  B.C., 
the  time  of  the  thirty  tyrants,  and  the  other  Signor 
Orsi  assigned  to  the  Byzantine  epoch.  Signor  Orsi 
wasn't  in  the  least  annoyed  at  the  men  for  having 
sold  the  coins,  although  it  is  strictly  forbidden. 
Many  things  are  strictly  forbidden  in  Sicily,  but 
few  things  are  strictly  punished.  They  were  not 
coins  which  the  Museum  wanted. 

Signor  Orsi  is  a  mighty  fine-looking  fellow,  and 
was  most  correctly  and  suitably  dressed  for  his 
interesting  occupation.  In  my  own  mind,  I  fancy 
he  greatly  preferred  escorting  this  smiling  English 
girl,  whose  eyes  responded  eagerly  to  his  words  of 

6 


78        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

wisdom,  over  the  excavations,  to  his  famous  guest 
of  yesterday,  no  less  a  personage  than  Sir  Marma- 
duke  Wise,  trustee  of  the  British  Museum  and  lots 
of  other  things  besides.  Although  I'll  be  bound 
that  Doris  has  none  but  the  vaguest  idea  of  what 
post  a  tyrant  held  in  the  third  century  B.C.  A 
tyrant  means  a  bully  to  her,  in  ancient  or  modern 
history,  and  perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  not  so  very  far 
amiss. 

Signor  Orsi  must  have  thought,  judging  from  her 
modern  appearance,  that  she  was  scarcely  a  likely 
subject  to  take  an  intelligent  interest  in  what  she 
was  at  the  moment  examining;  but  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  her  unintelligent  interest  amazingly.  He 
spoke  English. 

Doris  was  very  vexed,  and  told  him  so,  that  the 
tombs  cannot  honestly  be  ascribed  to  an  earlier  date 
than  late  Christian. 

"  I  prefer  the  oxen  ploughing  in  the  field; 
I  do  despise  anything  later  than  '  Pagan  '  in 
tombs.  I'd  almost  as  soon  have  the  Brompton 
Cemetery." 

Some  of  the  tombs  were  quite  amusing,  all  the 
same.  They  were  cut  out  of  the  rock,  of  course ; 
for  fields  in  Syracuse  consist  of  rock,  with  a  surface 
of  light  soil  like  a  top-dressing,  except  in  the  vol- 
canic districts.  There  the  earth  is  as  dark  and  as 
rich  as  velvet,  a  beautiful  contrast  to  the  grey-green 
of  the  olive-trees  growing  on  it.  These  tombs 
looked  snug  and  sensible.  In  one  cave  or  vault 
there  were  six  rock  coffins  lying  side  by  side,  which 
resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  pound  of  fat 
sausages  laid  in  a  row ;  this  was  a  family  vault.  One 
fine  tomb  had  an  inscription  over  it  to  the  ' '  Eorene 
Nymphi." 

This  of  course  had  a  human  interest  attached  to 
it  for  Doris,  and  therefore  brought  forth  many 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        79 

questions  which  I  felt  glad  the  learned  signor  was 
asked  to  answer  and  not  myself. 

What  strange  things  women  are  for  leaving  the 
main  facts  and  wandering  off  into  abstract  ques- 
tions :  they  can't  be  satisfied  with  tombs,  they  must 
have  the  spirits  which  haunt  them ! 

In  Sicily  prickly  pears  (Fichi  d'India),  as  the 
natives  call  them,  (the  English  jobbing-gardener 
designates  them  cacti  of  sorts)  are  to  the  walls  what 
glass  is  in  England. 

Indeed,  I  would  sooner  rob  an  orchard  by  climb- 
ing over  a  glass-topped  wall  than  one  protected  by 
prickly  pears.  The  sharp  hairs,  which  cover  the 
big,  succulent  plant-shaped  leaves  of  the  plant,  are 
very  poisonous.  In  Sicily  the  thief  would  in  all 
probability  carry  a  fine  pair  of  tweezers  in  his  pocket 
to  draw  out  the  thorns  with  if  he  attempted  to  scale 
the  wall.  These  thorns,  when  once  they  have 
worked  into  the  flesh,  create  blood-poisoning. 

"  What  magnificent  cover  they  would  make  for 
fighting  behind !"  Doris  said ;  "  nothing  could  find 
its  way  through  these  awful  leaves." 

Prickly  pears,  which  greet  you  everywhere  in 
Sicily,  are,  as  one  of  the  American  sisters  said, 
"  The  Wicked  Animals  of  Vegetation."  They 
came  from  America. 

Doris  says  stones  in  Sicily  are  like  flowers,  and 
so  they  are,  for  the  warm  hues  they  take  lend  plenty 
of  colour  to  the  landscape. 

M  And  they  grow  like  weeds,"  she  said,  looking 
over  the  great  stretch  of  rock-strewn  Achradina. 
"  I  believe  if  a  thousand  men  worked  for  a  thousand 
days  removing  the  stones  from  the  fields  in  Sicily, 
the  stones  would  grow  up  more  quickly  than  the 
men  could  cart  them  away." 

It  is  surprising  to  see  the  fine  green  blades  of  corn 
and  wheat  springing  up  between  the  rocks.     I  for- 


80        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

get  what  happened  to  the  wheat  which  was  sown 
upon  stony  ground,  but  evidently  the  Sicilians  don't 
believe  it,  and  have  proved  the  parable  wrong,  for 
everywhere  there  is  green  wheat  and  grey  stones. 

Some  of  the  ancient  olive-trees  growing  out  of 
these  rocky  fields  look  the  very  embodiment  of  time. 
Their  appearance  is  prehistoric  compared  with  other 
trees  which  never  turn  grey.  The  landscape  some- 
times seems  to  me  strikingly  like  a  fine  silver-point 
drawing. 

The  gigantic  boulders  of  limestone  and  the 
gnarled  grey  trunks  of  these  monarch  trees  are  so 
much  alike  in  tone  that  it  is  almost  possible  to  be- 
lieve that  the  trees  themselves  were  hewn  by  the 
Greeks  out  of  the  rocks.  They  are  not  like  our 
trees ;  they  are  totally  un-British. 

But  these  grey  scenes  are  not  for  all  time ;  often 
the  landscape  in  Sicily  is  a  riot  of  colour,  as,  for 
instance,  when  the  daring  pig's-face  is  in  bloom, 
Barba  di  Giove,  as  the  Sicilians  call  this  ostenta- 
tiously vulgar  flower,  which  hangs  like  a  curtain 
from  villa  walls  and  railway  banks. 

I  have  given  Doris  Lang's  Theocritus  to  read, 
and  every  moment  she  begs  my  pardon  and  inter- 
rupts my  writing.  It  is,  u  Tell  me  this,"  or 
"  Explain  that."  She  remarked  that  the  land- 
scape must  have  changed  since  Theocritus 's  day, 
like  the  climate  of  England  since  the  time  of  paint 
and  feathers.  For  where  to-day  are  the  fresh  green 
pastoral  scenes  Theocritus  loved  to  linger  over? 
Why  does  he  so  often  mention  kine  and  calves? 
To-day  it  is  goats  and  kids.  Where  is  the  grass  to 
feed  the  kine?  Goats  can  live  on  herbs  alone,  and 
on  every  scrap  that  proceedeth  out  of  the  ash- 
barrels  of  the  poor,  but  cows  must  have  grass  or 
turnips.  The  one  cow  of  Achradina  looks  as  if  it 
had  lived  on  wild  sage,  and  had  never  known  the 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        81 

succulent  juice  of  turnips;  but  the  people  are 
strangely  proud  of  the  honour  of  possessing  it,  all 
the  same,  and  the  watch-dog  treats  it  with  silent 
respect. 

I  thought  pink  campions  might  be  good  to  eat ; 
they  look  as  tempting  to  the  human  eye  as  English 
buttercups  and  are  far  more  numerous  here,  so  I 
watched  that  lonely  cow  of  Achradina.  It  brushed 
the  delicate  pink  petals  with  its  warm  breath  while 
it  kept  an  eager  watchful  eye  on  the  few  blades  of 
grass  which  were  growing  close  to  where  I  was 
sitting.  I  wanted  to  tell  that  cow  all  about  the  one 
horse  in  Venice,  just  to  let  it  know  that  other 
animals  have  their  trials  too,  but  I  remembered  that 
it  was  a  Sicilian  cow,  and  therefore  a  philosopher. 
In  youth  it  had  learnt  to  "  do  without." 

This  is  how  Doris  runs  on,  and  then  expects  me 
to  get  on  with  my  writing.  I  have  stuck  to  my 
story,  but  it  is  no  pleasant  work  letting  the  old  hero 
see  what  a  fool  he  has  made  of  himself ;  that  sort  of 
thing  strikes  nearer  home  than  one  fancies  some- 
times. 

It  is  strange  how  we  can  look  at  old  age  and  at 
death  as  grim  evils  that  come  to  others  and  that 
we  evade.  Death  is  a  natural  circumstance  when 
it  does  not  threaten  me  or  those  near  to  me. 

Do  you  know  the  carob-tree  by  sight?  It 
supplies  Sicily  with  the  long  brown  beans  which 
Doris  and  I  have  so  often  discussed,  as  to  where 
they  grew.  They  are  the  size  of  a  good  broad  bean, 
but  with  a  pod  as  strong  and  polished  as  old 
mahogany.  The  tree  they  grow  on  is  a  magnificent 
evergreen,  with  fine  glossy  leaves.  They  are  very 
plentiful,  these  carob-beans,  and  are  for  sale  here 
in  all  the  country  shops  M  where  fodder  for  beasts 
sells  itself." 


82        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

I  fancy  this  particular  fodder,  however,  in  times 
of  need  "  sells  itself  also  for  men."  Broad-beans, 
carob-beans,  polenta,  and  fennel  are,  I  think,  the 
cheapest  popular  articles  of  food  in  Sicily ;  macaroni 
only  comes  into  the  domestic  economy  of  those  who 
are  a  little  removed  from  actual  poverty. 

When  Doris  complained  about  a  horse  which  was 
vainly  trying  to  drag  our  insecurely  patched  cab 
along  a  rough  road  the  other  day,  the  driver,  who 
is  a  good  fellow  and  honest,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  remarked  : 

"  When  I  am  hungry,  signorina,  of  course  my 
beast  is  hungry.  When  I  have  something  to  eat, 
it  has  something;  but  my  children  must  come 
first." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  for  the  argument  seemed 
final,  and  so  far  as  his  children  were  concerned 
we  knew  he  was  speaking  the  truth,  for  Sicilian 
gentleness  to  children  and  their  kindness  to  those 
poorer  than  themselves  are  beyond  the  denial  of 
their  enemies. 

M  Is  that  not  just,  signorina?"  he  said.  "  If  I 
had  always  plenty  of  food,  my  beast  would  have 
plenty.  He  keeps  me  and  my  family ;  I  have  no 
desire  to  kill  him." 

"  Let  me  buy  his  horse  some  food,"  Doris  said, 
"  or  else  have  the  poor  thing  shot,  and  get  him  a 
new  one;  we  come  to  Sicily  and  enjoy  ourselves 
and  do  nothing  for  the  people." 

u  My  dear  little  one,"  I  said,  "  a  kind  impulse 
is  good,  but  not  always  wise.  You  could  not 
support  all  the  poor  in  Syracuse.  If  you  bought 
this  man  a  new  horse,  you  would  have  every  diseased 
horse  in  Sicily  brought  up  to  the  hotel  in  cabs 
to-morrow  morning.  An  Englishwoman,  as 
kind-hearted  as  yourself,  and  as  anxious  to  do 
something   for   the   wretched    cab-horses,    began 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        83 

buying  up  all  the  old  horses  which  were  past  work, 
and  giving  a  little  extra  money  to  the  owner  to 
purchase  a  good  one.  The  number  of  scabbed, 
miserable  beasts  increased  in  Palermo  at  an  astound- 
ing rate.  The  unsuspecting  lady  was  at  last 
informed  by  a  knowing  Italian  that  an  enormous 
trade  in  diseased  and  lame  horses  had  started 
between  Sicily  and  the  mainland  since  she  had 
begun  buying  the  disabled  beasts  for  charity. 
Believe  me,  the  only  way  to  do  any  good  is  to  pay 
the  cabman  an  honest  fare — not  an  exorbitant  one, 
for  what  the  Sicilian  makes  too  easily  he  gambles 
away,  and  a  good  deal  else  besides — and  always 
stoutly  refuse  to  get  into  a  cab  if  the  horse  has  a 
sore  or  is  past  work.  It  will  be  the  survival  of  the 
fittest  cabby,  of  course,  which,  although  seemingly 
cruel,  is  the  only  remedy.  If  a  cabman  cannot 
afford  to  hire  a  good  sound  horse  from  the  cab- 
owner,  then  he  must  take  to  begging,  or  even 
worse;  any  profession  will  be  better  than  driving 
a  miserable  horse,  harnessed  by  a  rope  to  a  dis- 
reputable cab." 

"  At  least  I  may  buy  this  one  horse  a  bunch  of 
fresh  carrots?  Oh,  think,"  she  said, — "  think  of 
the  horses  in  England  that  get  their  lumps  of  sugar 
and  two  fresh  carrots  every  Sunday  when  their 
masters  visit  the  stable,  and  their  fresh  bedding, 
and — and  unsalted  hay,  and  old  grain  every  day ! 
This  poor  beast  has  never  seen  a  bed  of  dry  straw, 
or  licked  a  lump  of  sugar  from  a  loving  hand  since 
it  was  foaled." 

We  purchased  some  carrots,  and  for  the  rest  of 
the  way,  as  we  drove  along  the  narrow  road  with 
white  plastered  walls  topped  with  golden  oranges 
and  green  leaves,  the  happy  cabman  and  the  sur- 
prised horse  devoured  the  juicy  carrots  with  fine 
faultless  teeth. 


84        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  Listen!"  Doris  said;  "  he  crunches  them  as 
eagerly  as  his  horse." 

"  Hunger  makes  primitive  men  of  even  poets," 
I  said,  u  let  alone  cabmen.  At  the  present 
moment  he  is  not  far  removed  from  the  level  of  his 
beast;  hunger  dominates  them  both." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  if  real  hunger  would 
give  Miss  Rosina  a  healthy  appetite?  Perhaps  at 
Ladysmith  even  stewed  kid  might  have  had  a 
relish." 

Miss  Rosina  has  become  conscious  of  the  Ger- 
man's attention  to  her,  and  is  very  much  perturbed. 
He  has  got  so  far  as  to  look  after  her  comfort  at 
table,  and  this  for  a  German  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
For  they  eat  in  the  same  methodical,  unemotional 
manner  as  they  study.  Nothing  diverts  their 
attention  from  the  main  idea.  A  German  stomach 
is  capable  of  holding  as  much  as  a  German  brain, 
without  becoming  disturbed  or  giving  in. 

Every  day  Theocritus's  garden  becomes  more 
wonderful ;  but  I  must  refrain,  or  you  will  complain 
that  my  letter,  as  usual,  is  very  disconnected. 
But  then,  am  I  not  writing  about  Sicily? 
and  nothing  in  Sicily  is  connected,  nothing  is 
methodical.  It  is  a  land  where  even  Nature  is 
surprised  at  herself,  and  the  big  people  have  the 
simplicity  of  little  children.  If  my  letters  were  to 
express  my  every-day  life  here,  they  would  be  a 
stranger  mixture  still  of  sunshine  and  flowers  and 
antique  remains,  and  the  unending  study  of  the 
beauties  and  horrors  of  poverty.  The  evenings  are 
warm  enough  now  for  glowworms,  which  shine  in 
the  narrow  paths,  where  the  tall  blue  lavender  and 
the  pink  rose-hedges  wind,  like  stars  dropped  down 
from  the  sweet  southern  night  to  taste  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        85 

Name  me  any  old  homely  English  flowers — love 
in  a  mist,  eye-bright,  traveller's-joy,  lad's-love,  or 
any  you  will — and  Doris  will  send  you  a  piece 
from  this  garden,  and  they  grow,  mind  you,  hob- 
nobbing with  semi-tropical  plants — the  wild  short 
palm,  for  instance,  which  serves  the  Sicilian  house- 
wife for  her  kitchen  brooms,  or  the  trailing  caper 
plant,  or  a  near  relation  of  our  simple  English 
comfrey,  that  almost  takes  upon  itself  the  airs  of 
an  orchid,  so  brilliant  is  its  colour  and  glorified  its 
blossom.  Before  the  hour  for  the  glowworms, 
when  the  evening  primroses  and  other  flowers  are 
opening  their  eyes,  hundreds  of  chattering  jack- 
daws return  to  their  homes  in  the  white  cliffs. 

Doris  and  her  Sicilian  garden  make  my  life  here 
a  thing  which  I  thought  could  not  have  come  to 
any  man  outside  Heaven.  No,  the  snake  has  not 
appeared  in  it  yet;  when  it  does  I  will  not  put 
the  blame  on  the  woman. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

Etna  has  appeared  at  last;  she  has  shaken 
off  her  megrims,  and  now  stands  out  like  a 
debutante  in  her  first  evening  dress,  waiting  to  be 
admired.  And  we  do  admire  her,  and  esteem  her, 
and  venerate  her,  as  all  Sicily  does.  Her  fairness  is 
bewildering,  her  contour  the  most  enchanting,  and 
she  has  it  all  her  own  way  too,  for  there  is  no  other 
snow-crowned  height  near.  Etna  rises  alone  from 
the  plains.  The  famous  Hyblsean  Hills — which  are 
only  hills,  not  imperial  mountains — are  in  the  far 
distance,  whereas  Etna  is  always  near,  whatever  her 
distance  may  be.  Etna  mothers  the  Sicilian  land- 
scape as  a  minister  does  a  city.  Doris  has  insisted 
upon  having  an  Etna  festival,  to  commemorate  our 
first  view  of  the  most  important  thing  in  Sicily. 
We  are  to  do  nothing  else  but  worship  at  the  shrine 
of  this  queen  of  snow  mountains.  This  phantom, 
opalescent  vision,  which  floats  somewhere  betwixt 
blue  heaven  and  earth,  is  a  thing  so  unreal  in  its 
delicate  beauty  that  it  seems  as  if  no  tired  feet  had 
ever  trodden  its  glittering  heights.  As  you  watch 
it  growing  in  beauty  and  mystery  with  every  change 
of  light,  it  seems  as  if  you  could  float  through  it 
with  the  clouds,  like  a  bird ;  it  is  too  spiritual  to  be 
solid. 

An  American  lady,  who  has  "  done  "  Syracuse 
in  a  day,  described  Mother  Etna  as  "  cunning." 

86 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        87 

"  Why,"  she  said,  comparing  the  delicate  pink 
flush  on  the  snow  with  the  human  flesh,  "  it's 
mighty  like  a  fine  American  woman's  pair  of 
rounded  shoulders  slipping  out  of  an  evening  bodice 
made  of  gauze!" 

The  clouds  which  float  round  the  mountain  are 
the  gauze,  you  must  know,  and  although  the  simile 
is  an  extraordinary  one,  it  is  uncommonly  clever 
when  you  see  the  reality.  Etna  has  the  impudence 
and  self-assurance  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  woman,  who 
has  gone  one  better  than  being  born  English.  For 
what  woman  living  would  not  say,  "  If  I  am  to  be 
born  again,  let  me  be  born  an  American"? 

Herr  Mackintosh  has  been  up  to  the  flat  roof  of 
the  hotel  every  morning  for  the  last  week  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Etna  by  sunrise.  She  is  reported  to 
be  almost  clear  of  clouds  at  that  uncomfortable 
hour;  but,  as  usual,  the  freakish  beauty  has  dis- 
appointed him. 

We  paid  a  short  visit  to  the  field  of  tombs  to-day, 
and  as  we  were  wandering  over  it  at  some  distance 
from  the  excavations,  we  came  across  a  fresh  dis- 
covery and  a  most  unexpected  sight,  and  this  last 
is  also  within  a  stone's-throw  of  our  garden.  We 
idly  followed  a  little  goat-track  cut  out  of  the  rock, 
which  eventually  led  us  down  by  a  flight  of  stone 
steps  to  the  lower  level  of  the  field.  When  we  had 
picked  our  way  down  the  primitive  staircase,  we 
were  suddenly  confronted  by  a  large  family,  living 
in  an  immense  ancient  cave-tomb.  We  could  not 
believe  at  first  that  the  group  of  people  busy  about 
the  entrance  of  the  tomb  actually  slept  and  lived  in 
it,  until  one  pleasant-faced  woman,  who  was  nursing 
a  fine  specimen  of  a  tomb-reared  child,  invited  us 
to  enter. 

The  tomb,  as  Doris  said,  had  evidently  once  be- 
longed to  a  u  noble  family,"  for  it  extended  for  a 


88        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

considerable  distance  back  into  the  rock,  and  was 
divided  into  two  portions.  On  the  rough  rock- 
wall,  hanging  over  a  primitive  bed  which  consisted 
of  planks,  laid  on  the  shelves  which  had  in  past 
centuries  been  reserved  for  the  ashes  of  the  great 
departed,  and  covered  with  two  natural  goat-skms, 
was  a  brightly  coloured  print  of  Our  Lady.  A 
night-light  in  a  glass  dish  was  feebly  burning  below 
it,  and  a  wreath  of  pink  cotton  roses,  sadly  faded, 
surrounded  the  dear  picture.  This  was  the  one 
elevating,  tender  touch  in  that  poorest  of  homes. 

Yes,  even  in  their  miserable  poverty  they  had 
spared  sous  enough  to  keep  bright  the  memory  of 
that  Mother  who  gave  her  only  Son  to  save  all  those 
who  are  "  weary  and  heavy-laden."  Two  wooden 
benches  formed  the  entire  furniture  of  the  house. 
That  little  light  in  the  darkness,"  Doris  said, 
"  I  shall  never  forget  it,  nor  will  Our  Lady,  I  am 
sure.  Its  light  will  travel  farther  than  the  fine  wax 
candles  in  the  cathedral." 

Our  hostess,  I  can  assure  you,  had  the  dignity  and 
graciousness  of  a  housewife  who  had  little  to  blush 
for.  It  was  her  home,  and  she  lent  it  a  homely 
dignity  and  grace. 

We  paid  a  visit  to  her  larder,  which  consisted  of 
the  smaller  portion  of  the  noble  tomb.  It  was,  as 
you  can  imagine,  a  fine  cool  place  wherein  to  set 
cheeses. 

The  cheeses,  it  is  needless  to  say,  were  made  of 
goat's  milk,  and  very  fresh  and  tempting  they 
looked,  laid  out  in  their  baskets  of  fresh  green  rush 
in  all  the  various  stages  of  maturing,  balanced  on 
end  or  on  side  according  to  their  age. 

"  Do  you  live  in  the  Villa  Politi?"  the  woman 
asked.  M  Madame  Politi  is  a  very  good  customer 
of  mine,"  she  added;  "  I  sell  her  all  my  best 
cheeses." 


One  old  woman,  with  her  head  encased  in  a  fine  yellow   'kerchief.' 

[To  face  p.  88. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        89 

u  Just  fancy,"  Doris  said:  "  we  actually  have 
been  eating  cheese  made  in  ancient  Greek  tombs 
not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  our  very  door.  What 
will  we  find  out  next?  I  told  you  everything  in 
Sicily  was  classical,  but  the  Hyblaean  honey  and  the 
tomb  cheeses  are  the  limit." 

"  Perhaps  the  food  generally  would  be  better  if 
it  were  more  modern,"  I  said,  "  although  it  might 
not  be  so  picturesque." 

One  old  woman,  with  her  head  encased  in  a  fine 
yellow  kerchief,  was  seated  on  the  floor  watching 
a  cauldron  of  boiling  milk,  which  was  hanging  from 
a  hook  fastened  in  the  rock-roof  over  some  charcoal 
ashes ;  while  a  small  boy,  with  a  perfect  profile  and 
imperfect  goatskin  trousers,  was  fanning  the  embers 
with  a  wild-palm  leaf. 

The  moment  the  old  crone  spied  us  she  left  the 
pot  and  tottered  to  Doris's  side,  and  with  trembling 
hands  and  eager  eyes  examined  all  the  girl's  finery 
— first  her  bangles,  then  her  rings,  and  last  of  all 
the  elegant  beaded  slippers  which,  I  must  confess, 
were  ill  suited  to  the  rough  ground.  The  hostess 
quietly  apologised. 

"  Would  the  signorina  please  excuse  her  grand- 
mother? she  was  very  old,  she  was  a  child  again." 

"  Of  course,"  Doris  said;  "  I  am  so  glad  the 
trinkets  please  her.  We  wear  these  things  to  be 
admired,  you  know,  so  it  is  quite  right."  Some 
coppers  were  slipped  into  the  old  hand,  and  a  franc 
was  presented  to  the  baby ;  then  we  left,  with  an 
invitation  from  our  charming  hostess  to  come  as 
often  as  we  liked;  "  our  visit  had  been  kind  and 
beautiful." 

11  Could  Theocritus  have  beaten  this?"  Doris 
said.  "  Look  at  the  poor  young  kids  hanging  out- 
side on  the  wall  of  the  tomb,  waiting  to  be  skinned 
and  eaten !     What  a  picture  of  sacrificial  innocence 


90        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

they  look!  And  there  is  the  cool  green  fennel 
just  dug  out  of  the  patch  of  precious  soil,  which  has 
to  grow  so  many  crops  in  one  year." 

It  is  a  comfort  to  think  that  in  a  climate  like 
this  the  family  need  only  sleep  in  the  tomb.  They 
can  sing  and  gamble  and  half  starve  in  the  sun. 
"  And  wine  is  a  beggar's  drink  in  Sicily." 

Goats  make  Sicily,  and  Sicily  makes  goats.  Like 
all  wicked  things,  they  can  thrive  on  very  little,  and 
pick  up  a  precarious  living  somehow.  Goats  are 
the  Chinese  of  the  animal  world.  I  can  almost 
imagine  them  playing  fan-tan  and  enjoying  opium. 

But  this  little  home,  mind  you,  Louise,  does  not 
represent  real  poverty,  not  as  Sicily  knows  it,  not 
as  you  can  see  it  in  the  cities. 

In  Syracuse,  the  other  day,  we  met  a  man  with  a 
long  narrow  cart  filled  with  slender  casks. 

"  Those  don't  look  like  wine  barrels,"  Doris 
said;  "  let's  ask  the  man  what  they  contain." 

"  Signorina,  they  are  full  of  water,  not  wine." 

M  What  are  they  for?" 

M  To  supply  the  poor  houses." 

"  Have  they  no  water  in  their  houses  at  all?" 

"  Very  few  of  the  houses  have  cisterns.  I  am 
employed  to  go  to  the  city  cistern  and  fill  these 
barrels  with  water.  Each  house  is  allowed  one 
barrel  of  water  a  day,  for  which  they  pay  one 
soldo." 

"  When  shall  we  come  to  an  end  of  what  Sicily 
does  without?"  Doris  said  to  me.  "  That  is  the 
reason,  I  suppose,  why  the  women  carry  out  their 
own  and  other  people's  household  washing  to  the 
roadside  stream  which  we  pass  every  day.  Have 
you  noticed  that  the  flow  of  water  in  it  is  much 
greater  in  the  forenoon,  and  that  all  the  washing  is 
done  early  in  the  day  ?  Is  it  nature  or  the  ingenious 
Sicilian  who  adjusts  the  supply  to  the  demand?" 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        91 

66  I  fancy  it  is  an  aqueduct/'  I  said,  M  although 
it  looks  like  a  country  stream ;  water  is  too  precious 
in  Sicily  to  be  allowed  to  be  quite  natural." 

It  is  a  fine  sight  to  see  these  sunburnt  women, 
standing  knee-deep,  washing  their  clothes  in  the 
narrow  stream  which  flows  even  with  the  road,  or 
kneeling  by  the  side  of  it,  beating  their  poor  frag- 
ments, so  rich  in  colour,  against  the  limestone. 

It  is  always  washing-day  in  Sicily,  and  the  whole 
city  washes  by  this  stream.  Wizened  old  women, 
bright  young  girls,  with  carefully  dressed  heads 
held  so  haughtily,  and  young  mothers,  all  chatter 
and  wash  and  wring  and  souse,  while  the  warm  sun 
shines  down  upon  them,  and  gives  their  skin  a 
deeper  tint  and  their  laughter  a  fuller  note.  A 
hedge  of  prickly-pear  behind  them  forms  a  fine 
drying-line.  Sometimes  you  see  a  handsome 
knitted  quilt  spread  on  the  hedge,  the  envy  of  every 
housewife,  or  a  richly  embroidered  skirt ;  but  as  a 
rule  the  things  washed  are  too  poor  to  be  worth 
stealing. 

Soon  after  midday  every  stitch  is  dry,  and  you 
will  see  the  same  bevy  of  women  walking  across  the 
ancient  rotdndo  back  to  the  city,  carrying  their 
clothes,  sun-dried  and  river- washed,  balanced 
lightly  on  their  heads. 

Some  of  the  bundles  are  of  enormous  size,  but 
nothing  is  heavy  enough  to  silence  the  busy  tongue 
of  a  Sicilian  woman.  So  you  see  again  this  charm- 
ing simplicity  is  the  outcome  of  dire  necessity,  for 
if  your  Syracusan  housewife  had  water  in  her  house, 
and  money  to  buy  coals,  she  would  not  bother  to 
carry  her  household  washing  all  the  way  out  to  this 
country  stream. 

It  is  so  often  from  necessity,  and  not  from  choice, 
that  Sicilian  habits  are  picturesque  and  healthy. 

These  women  live  in  the  basements  of  decayed 


92        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

palaces ;  picturesque,  with  ancient  coats  of  arms,  and 
high  Gothic  windows,  which  look  down  grimly  upon 
the  humble  dwellers  in  the  basements.  It  is  only 
when  you  pass  under  the  ancient  and  outer  doorway 
of  one  of  these  palaces,  and  enter  the  spacious 
courtyard,  that  you  realise  their  size  and  ancient 
splendour,  their  magnificent  columns,  fine  windows, 
and  sun  galleries.  These  palaces  were  built  in  the 
days  when  a  man  fortified  his  home,  and  knew  that 
it  was  safer  to  keep  his  windows  well  above  the 
reach  of  men.  The  absence  of  low  windows  gives 
a  prison-like  appearance  to  the  street  front  of  the 
finest  palaces. 

Romance  dies  hard,  Louise,  even  with  nine- 
teenth-century tourists.  Doris  told  me  to-day  of 
a  little  incident  relating  to  the  German  which  will 
amuse  you. 

As  I  told  you,  Herr  Mackintosh  has  been  accom- 
panying the  three  sisters  round  ancient  Syracuse. 
On  leaving  her  room  this  morning,  Doris  met  the 
head-waiter  carrying  up  the  stairs  a  flat  rush-basket 
full  of  violets.  "  Beautiful  pale  mauve  double 
ones,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  I  thought  they  were 
for  me ;  it  made  me  feel  quite  frivolous  again.  I 
stopped  the  man." 

"  '  No,  no,  signorina,'  he  said,  '  they  are  not  for 
you;  the  Signor  Tedesco  has  sent  them  to  the 
Signorina  Americana.' 

"  I  looked  so  surprised  and  disappointed  that  the 
waiter  felt  sorry.  Sicilians  are  sympathetic,  even 
the  waiters. 

"  ■  Perhaps  the  Signore  Inglese  thinks  you  do 
not  care  for  flowers,  signorina.'  " 

"  How  foolish  of  me  ! "  I  said ;  "  I  never  thought 
that  you  would  care  to  have  any,  there  are  so  many 
growing  wild  in  the  latomia." 

"  It  was  the  thought,"  she  said,  with  a  pro- 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        93 

voking  blush,  "  the  pretty  attention.  They  do 
not  grow  wild  in  the  latomia.  Don't  you  know 
that  we  women  love  to  be  made  a  lot  of,  to  be  fussed 
over,  and  thought  about?  We'd  exchange,  any 
one  of  us,  a  worthy  man  for  the  villain  who 
remembered  to  bring  us  home  a  box  of  chocolate ! 

"  Besides,"  she  said,  "  the  violets  the  German 
sent  Miss  Rosina  were  pale  mauve  violets,  very, 
very  double,  and  very,  very  sweet."  She  sighed. 
"  How  I  should  have  liked  to  see  Miss  Rosina 
receive  them!" 

"  You  shall  have  some  of  the  same,  just  as  mauve 
and  just  as  sweet,"  I  said.  "  I  will  go  into  the 
city  this  afternoon,  and  I  will  wire  to  Milan,  if 
necessary,  for  even  the  violets  come  from  Milan,  I 
suppose." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Please  don't  trouble;  it  is  very  kind  of  you, 
but  a  little  dull.  There  isn't  the  same  excitement 
about  an  attention  you  have  suggested  yourself, 
especially  if  the  idea  was  made  in  Germany.  And 
it  won't  alter  the  fact  that  Miss  Rosina  has  inspired 
her — her  lover  with  a  sentiment  which  I  have  failed 
to  arouse  in  you." 

This  evening,  Miss  Rosina,  looking  younger  and 
brighter  than  we  have  yet  seen  her,  adorned  herself 
with  the  violets  of  Signor  Tedesco,  which  accorded 
well  with  the  delicate  grey  of  her  gown.  Miss 
Rosina  is  always  compelled  to  drive  with  her  back 
to  the  sun,  and  a  thin  brown  gossamer  protects  her 
fine  American  skin  from  the  wind.  In  the  kindlier 
light  of  the  lamp  she  looked  a  fragile,  dainty  figure. 
The  German  is  teaching  her  some  new  games  of 
patience,  so  we  look  for  them  now  in  the  evening 
to  be  seated  at  a  little  table  in  the  window  of  the 
salon  de  lecture — Miss  Rosina  blushing,  and  timidly 
apologetic  for  her  stupidity,   the   German,   half 

7 


94        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

schoolmaster,  half  gallant,  and  very  moist,  while 
Miss  Persephine  blinks  with  her  one  business  eye 
from  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  eyeing  her  darling 
with  growing  pleasure. 

Even  before  your  last  letter  came  to  hand  our 
hopes  of  the  relief  of  Ladysmith  were  dashed. 
However,  as  you  say  that  you  are  steeped  both  in 
war-gloom  and  snow  in  London,  I  am  to  refrain 
from  discoursing  on  unpleasant  topics  and  trans- 
plant you  to  Sicily.  Doris  sends  her  kind  regards. 
I  am  your  affectionate  brother, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February,  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

It  seems  as  if  Etna  had  been  with  us  always ; 
I  cannot  now  imagine  the  landscape  without  the 
presence  of  the  most  characteristic  thing  in  it. 

Since  the  sirocco  has  gone  the  clearness  of  the 
atmosphere  is  amazing.  If  you  were  to  sit  down 
and  paint  Syracuse  as  it  is  to-day,  all  Sicily  would 
crowd  and  tumble  itself  on  to  your  canvas;  your 
foreground  would  be  driven  out. 

As  our  cabman  said  to-day,  when  we  were  driving 
along  the  road  which  lies  behind  the  ancient  fortress 
of  Euryalus  : 

11  Etna  goes  with  us  all  the  way,  she  is  only 
about  a  kilometre  and  a  half  away. "  (Her  distance 
from  Syracuse  is  about  fifty  miles.) 

Doris,  who  has  been  deep  in  Marcellus  for  the 
last  few  days  (he  is  her  latest  local  hero),  was  bent 
upon  trying  to  follow  up  his  footsteps.  From  this 
road  you  get  an  excellent  view  of  his  camp,  which 
lies  below  the  heights  of  the  Greek  fortress  of 
Euryalus. 

We  had  hoped  to  cross  over  to  the  Thapsus,  but 
the  narrow  passage  which  connects  the  island  with 
the  mainland  is  much  farther  than  this  clear 
atmosphere,  which  foreshortens  everything,  would 
have  you  believe.  And  distance  is  always  to  a 
Sicilian  cabman  what  his  customers  wish  it  to  be ; 
he  is  too  polite  or  too'wise  to  contradict  in  a  matter 

95 


96        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

of  this  kind.  If  you  wish  it  to  be  ten  miles,  it  is 
ten  miles,  or  five  should  you  prefer  it. 

A  carriage-drive  along  this  road  is  certainly  one 
of  the  most  enjoyable  excursions  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. On  your  right  is  the  bluest  of  blue  seas, 
with  snow-covered  Etna  floating  in  the  horizon. 
In  the  foreground  lies  Thapsus,  always  near,  yet 
never  within  driving  distance ;  while  on  your  right 
towers  the  fortress  of  Euryalus,  one  of  the  most 
impressive  monuments  of  the  Greeks,  looking  down 
upon  Marcellus's  camp  and  Epipolae.  A  short 
distance  farther  and  you  come  to  the  "  Scala 
Greca,"  the  most  picturesque  object  in  this  wonder- 
ful group  of  antiquities. 

The  ancient  Greek  stair,  like  everything  else  that 
is  Greek,  is  hewn  out  of  the  hillside,  which,  of 
course,  is  composed  of  rock.  The  wide  steps — so 
beautifully  proportioned — are  shaded  here  and 
there  by  olive-trees  which  look  as  old  as  eternity, 
or  as  our  poor  conception  of  it.  The  stair  is  quite 
perfect  in  some  parts,  and  can  easily  be  followed 
from  the  sea  up  to  the  fortress.  It  is  a  long,  stiff 
climb,  but  every  step  is  worth  the  effort. 

While  you  are  driving  along  this  sea-road,  the 
blue  Hyblsean  hills  are  always  before  you  in  the 
distance.  But  in  this  clear  weather  nothing  is 
distant;  there  is  absolutely  no  atmosphere.  The 
artist  is  brave  who  paints  Sicily  under  such 
an  aspect.  It  made  Miss  Persephine  tell  us  a 
story  : 

An  Englishman  in  Calgary,  Alberta,  was  stand- 
ing on  the  doorstep  of  his  hotel  one  morning.  The 
atmosphere,  which  is  as  clear  there  as  it  is  here, 
brought  a  mountain  in  the  distance  right  up  to  the 
front  door.  The  tenderfoot  turned  to  the  landlord 
and  told  him  that  he  was  going  to  climb  the 
mountain   before  lunch.     It   looked  so  inviting. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        97 

"  That's  right,  sonny,"  the  man  said,  laughing; 
"  mind  you  don't  keep  the  bacon  and  beans 
waiting." 

Late  afternoon  came  and  the  Englishman  did  not 
return.  A  search-party  was  sent  in  quest  of  him. 
After  riding  many  miles  they  at  last  saw  the 
unhappy  man  standing  by  the  edge  of  a  narrow 
stream,  a  mere  ditch.  He  was  naked,  and  his 
clothes  were  tied  round  his  neck  with  a  string. 

Going  cautiously  up  to  him,  the  men  asked  him 
the  reason  of  his  extraordinary  behaviour.  They 
were  afraid  between  themselves  that  the  strange 
desolation  of  the  country  had  affected  his  brain. 
The  Englishman  turned  to  them,  however,  and 
answered  in  the  calmest  tone  of  voice  : 

"  I  mean  to  swim  that  stream,  gentlemen,  in 
case  it  plays  me  the  same  trick  as  the  mountain  has 
done.  I  started  out  early  this  morning  to  reach 
the  top  of  it  and  be  home  again  before  lunch.  The 
mountain  is  just  as  far  off  now  as  it  was  when  I  left 
the  inn.  So  I'm  prepared  to  swim,  in  case  that 
stream  plays  me  the  same  abominable  trick." 

She  also  told  us  the  following  fact,  which,  I 
believe,  is  perfectly  true.  It  should  be  a  warning 
to  lovers  not  to  visit  Canada  in  the  cold  season. 
In  some  parts  the  air  is  so  charged  with  electricity 
in  the  winter  that  kissing  is  quite  painful.  Miss 
Persephine  said  she  knew  a  young  mother  who 
refrained  from  kissing  her  children  for  more  than  a 
month  for  this  very  reason.  The  concussion  of 
their  lips  caused  sparks,  which  could  be  plainly 
seen.  She  said  that  as  a  child  she  had  often  amused 
herself  by  lighting  the  gas  from  her  finger-tips, 
after  having  held  hands  with  her  little  sister  and 
shuffled  her  feet  along  the  floor. 

It  is  marvellous  how  rapidly  the  god  of  Spring 


98        BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

does  his  work  in  a  land  like  this.  Already  the 
green  almonds  are  well  formed  on  the  trees,  and  the 
short  blue  iris  and  the  asphodels  are  over ;  the  late 
spring  flowers  now  take  their  place  in  our  daily  lives. 
Doris  found  a  piece  of  wild  laburnum  growing 
out  of  the  stones  of  the  fortress  of  Euryalus  the 
other  day;  this  we  considered  a  rather  superior 
find. 

The  little  rock-daisy  covers  the  country  for  miles 
around.  It  is  so  white  and  grows  so  close  to  the 
ground  that  it  seems  like  a  light  fall  of  snow.  We 
cannot  even  yet  work  up  any  enthusiasm  for  the 
"  pig's-face,"  which  becomes  more  and  more  un- 
controlled in  its  luxuriance  every  day.  There  is 
nothing  this  most  vulgar  flower  will  not  cover  with 
its  artificial-looking  magenta  blossoms. 

Doris  says  it  is  a  kitchen  Christmas-tree  flower, 
and  that  she  would  do  better  herself  with  a  pair 
of  scissors  and  a  sheet  of  magenta  paper  in  five 
minutes. 

However,  there  is  more  in  pig's  face,  or  Barba 
di  Giove,  than  meets  the  tourist's  eye,  for  the 
curious  leaves  of  the  plant,  which  hang  like  fat 
green  fingers  over  the  walls,  are  as  succulent  and 
refreshing  as  the  leaves  of  the  prickly  pear.  These 
two  plants  serve  the  beasts  of  the  fields  with  the 
only  drop  of  moisture  they  get  during  the  long 
summer  drought.  Nature  is  marvellously  provi- 
dent. But  how  these  uncanny  plants  become 
succulent  on  white  sand  and  limestone  rock  is  one 
of  her  secrets.  The  tunny  fish  is  another  example 
of  her  foresight.  It  is,  you  know,  one  of  the  main 
industries  of  the  island.  The  fishing  and  canning 
and  preserving  of  this  monster  fish  gives  employ- 
ment to  many  thousands.  In  the  warm  weather, 
when  every  other  kind  of  fish  is  unfit  for  human 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY        99 

food  one  hour  after  it  is  dead,  the  kindly  tunny 
keeps  fresh  and  sweet. 

The  day  the  tunny  fishing  commences  in  the 
island  there  is  a  great  jollification.  It  has  become 
quite  a  national  festival.  I  think  you  might  say 
that  tunny  fish,  sulphur,  grapes,  almonds,  and 
lemons,  are  the  most  valuable  objects  of  commerce 
in  this  poor  little  island.  Then  the  fig-tree  is 
another  of  Nature's  providences.  It  leafs  later 
than  almost  any  other  tree,  and  remains  green  and 
shade-giving  when  the  tenderer-leaved  trees  are 
burnt  dry. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  in  the  landscape  it  is 
the  trees  only  which  remind  a  Northerner  that  these 
warm  days  are  spring  and  not  summer.  For 
although  the  English  summer  wild-flowers  are  in 
blossom  and  the  pig's-face  is  dirty  with  dust,  the 
trees  are  still  skeletons  in  armour. 

Doris  says  she  frequently  thinks  that  some  leafless 
tree  has  been  blighted,  it  seems  so  out  of  keeping 
with  the  flowers  and  the  hot  sunshine.  I  do  not 
know  a  barren  fig-tree  when  I  see  it,  but  all  fig-trees 
without  their  leaves  look  naked.  Madame  Politi 
it  was  who  first  made  the  remark,  and  it  is  a 
fact. 

"  There  is  something  immodest  to  me  about 
their  bareness,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot  explain  why, 
but  fig-trees  always  seem  humanly  naked  to  me." 
Certainly  the  one  fig-tree  in  her  garden  looks  a  most 
uncovered  creature ;  perhaps  it  is  the  sharp  contrast 
to  the  glorious  green  of  the  almond-trees. 

Most  of  the  guests  in  the  hotel  are  beginning  to 
arrange  their  plans  for  visiting  the  other  show- 
places  of  the  island.  Taormina  is  on  every  one's 
lips.  It  is  one  of  those  things  upon  which  you  are 
allowed  no  individual  opinion.     It  has  been  called 


100      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

the  most  beautiful  place  in  Sicily  since  tourists  first 
began  to  explore,  and  woe  to  the  person  who  denies 
it,  even  Professor  Freeman ! 

Another  scholarly  visitor  has  honoured  our  hotel 
to-day — the  provost  of  an  Oxford  college.  Poor 
Miss  Persephine,  perceiving  nothing  more  in  him 
than  a  reserved  Englishman,  started  telling  him  a 
few  facts  about  the  history  of  Syracuse.  Dear 
lady,  she  got  hopelessly  mixed  over  the  Greek  and 
Latin  names  of  her  twelve  gods.  She  told  him 
"  she  didn't  know  now  whether  it  was  Artemis  or 
Diana  who  metamorphosed  the  nymph  Arethusa 
into  the  fountain  of  that  name,  for  one  writer 
seemed  to  say  it  was  Diana  and  another  that  it  was 
Artemis.  But  as  Professor  Freeman  writes  about 
Sicily  as  if  it  belonged  to  him  she  had  determined 
to  follow  him." 

What  that  poor  provost  endured  I  cannot 
conceive,  but  never  by  a  look  or  a  sign  did  he  let 
out  that  he  knew  the  maiden  by  both  her  Greek  and 
Latin  names.  It  is  astonishing  what  a  very  long 
way  a  little  knowledge  goes  with  an  American. 
They  utilise  it  like  their  dollars — to  the  best  advan- 
tage, and  thrash  it  out  like  chewing-gum.  Miss 
Persephine  goes  in  for  being  a  bit  of  a  geologist, 
and  her  plate  at  lunch  and  dinner  is  surrounded  by 
small  pieces  of  stone. 

"  She  is  gradually  removing  Achradina,"  Doris 
said.  "  The  Government  shouldn't  allow  it." 
I  wonder  how  much  she  will  remember  of  the 
history  of  Syracuse  when  she  gets  to  Taormina. 
How  delightfully  fogged  she  will  be  by  the  time 
she  reaches  New  Boston  over  Hephaestus  and 
Vulcan,  and  Poseidon  and  Neptune !  Dear,  kind 
lady,  she  has  offered  to  take  the  provost  over  the 
fortress  of  Euryalus  to-morrow  and  point  him  out 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      101 

the  famous  wall  of  Dionysius.  "  Americans  may 
know  enough  to  come  in  when  it  rains,"  Doris  says, 
"  but  they  seldom  know  enough  to  hold  their 
tongues." 

I  wish  you  would  send  me  by  parcels  post  a  box 
of  good  sweets — not  opera  peppermints.  Ask 
Fullers  to  make  you  up  a  popular  selection  of  their 
most  popular  candies.  Doris  is  craving  for  some- 
thing really  sweet.  The  sugar  here,  which  costs 
as  much  as  a  franc  a  pound,  has  no  more  sweetness 
in  it  than  the  rocks  of  Achradina,  and  not  so  much 
nourishment,  judging  by  the  pig's-face. 

It  was  the  old  general  who  gave  me  the  idea. 

"  How  is  your  little  friend?"  he  said.  "  I  have 
not  seen  her  for  two  days ;  I  have  been  confined  to 
my  room.  But  I  have  got  the  Catania  paper  with 
excellent  war  news ;  I  should  like  to  read  it  to  her." 
The  old  beggar  looked  at  me  quizzically  as  he  spoke. 

I  said  she  was  very  well. 

M  My  man  has  been  trying  all  over  Syracuse  to 
get  me  some  French  sweets  for  her.  She  looks  as 
if  she  ought  to  be  fed  on  sweets.  But  there  isn't 
one  to  begot." 

I  almost  said,  '*  Confound  your  impudence!" 
but  refrained.  "  I  fancy  you  underrate  her  intel- 
lectual appetite,"  I  replied  coldly. 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said,  "  I  don't;  but  I  should  like 
to  give  her  the  sweets  she  is  pining  for.  I  know  she 
is,  because  I  have  seen  her  eating  lumps  of  sugar  on 
the  sly,  and  you  know  you  don't  get  much 
*  forrarder  '  on  Syracusan  sugar." 

To-day  we  saw  a  most  painful  sight,  and  one 
which  you  will  scarcely  credit  as  possible.  A 
wretched  skeleton  of  a  horse,  which  was  drawing  a 
cart,  full  of  lemon  refuse,  had  a  deep  wound  in  its 


102      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

side  literally  plastered  up  with  red  sealing-wax! 
The  wound  had  been  caused  by  the  chafing  of  the 
shaft  against  the  beast's  side. 

Doris  caught  my  hand  in  hers  while  we  were 
passing  it.     I  saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

"  Do  let  us  go  back  to  our  garden,  dear  friend ; 
this  is  one  of  my  black  days,  when  I  see  all  the  halt 
and  maimed  and  suffering  things  in  Sicily.  There 
are  days  when  you  seem  to  have  eyes  for  what  is 
wholly  distressing.  In  London  it  is  the  drunken 
men  and  women,  and  evil-faced  little  children  whom 
I  see ;  here  it  is  starving  men  and  women,  and  ill- 
used  animals.  There  are  other  days  when  all  these 
things  disappear,  and  I  see  only  the  Madonna-faced 
mothers  and  the  tenderly  loved  children.  On  these 
days  Sicily  is  so  beautiful  that  it  is  a  joy  and  a 
privilege  to  know  her." 

We  were  silent  for  a  moment.  I  did  not  know 
how  to  answer.  A  man  so  often  wounds  the  fine 
sensibilities  of  a  woman  when  he  least  means  it,  and 
is  most  desirous  of  comforting. 

"  Please  don't  say  it  is  'liver,'  "  she  said,  with- 
drawing her  eloquent  hand,  "  or  think  it  without 
saying  it,  for  it  isn't.  Surely  every  one  has  those 
days  of  sharp  contrast,  even  in  England.  Here  in 
Sicily  of  course  everything  is  intense.  It  is 
brilliant  sunshine  or  deep  shade,  there  are  no  half- 
tones even  in  life.  The  people  are  gay  or  sad. 
While  the  luxury  of  the  rich  is  a  foolish,  wanton 
luxury,  self-indulgent  and  sensual,  the  poverty  of 
the  poor  is  naked  and  appalling." 

"  But  even  in  Sicily,"  I  said,  "  there  is  not  more 
night  than  day.  You  must  have  your  black  clouds, 
or  your  simple  joy  of  living  in  the  golden  sunshine 
would  lose  its  keenness.  To  enjoy  things  intensely 
you  must  suffer  in  proportion.     Carlyle,  I  think  it 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      103 

is  who  says  '  The  quantity  of  sorrow  he  has,  does  it 
not  mean  withal  the  quantity  of  sympathy  he  has, 
the  quantity  of  faculty  and  victory  he  shall  yet 
have?'  Our  sorrow  is  the  inverted  image  of  our 
nobleness.  The  depth  of  our  despair  measures  the 
capability  and  height  of  claims  we  have  to  hope." 

"  How  full  of  understanding!"  she  said.  "  I 
must  read  Carlyle.  Where  does  that  come 
from?" 

"  He  is  referring  especially  to  Cromwell  in  his 
times  of  mental  depression, — in  the  early  days  of 
inaction,  when  blackness  assailed  his  great  soul, 
and  melancholia  was  a  more  dreaded  enemy  to  fight 
and  conquer  than  all  the  king's  men." 

Doris  and  I  have  travelled  together  so  far  on  the 
winding  road  of  friendship  that  we  often  enjoy 
walking  without  speaking,  more  than  chattering 
without  feeling.  Francesco,  our  cabman,  turns 
round  and  smiles  to  us  if  we  are  silent  too  long. 
He  fancies  the  signorina  is  dull :  her  companion  is 
too  old ;  he  has  not  the  sentiment  or  the  gaiety  of 
an  Italian  on  such  an  occasion. 

Suddenly,  while  we  were  driving  home,  a  flock  of 
goats,  which  seemed  evil  enough  to  have  been  the 
actual  beasts  put  on  the  left  side  in  the  Book  of  the 
Revelation,  surrounded  our  low  victoria  and  literally 
covered  the  road.  Black  goats,  brown  goats,  and 
white  goats,  all  with  leering,  fiendish  faces,  stormed 
our  way  like  a  company  of  the  "  Devil's  Own." 

There  was  a  fine  tinkling  of  copper  bells,  cool  to 
the  ear  as  the  babbling  of  a  Scotch  burn,  and  some 
of  the  animals  wore  immense  wooden  collars  gaily 
painted.  Their  colouring  reminded  me  of  the 
painted  wooden  household  gods  and  horse-collars 
of  Norway. 

M  I  suppose  these  cumbersome  collars  are  worn 


104      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

as  a  punishment  by  the  goats  who  steal  their  own 
milk?"  Doris  said. 

The  goatherd  was  one  of  those  beautiful  boys 
whom  you  find  now  and  again  in  Sicily  in  the  most 
unlikely  surroundings.  His  clothes  were  simple 
goatskin,  and  his  feet  were  bound  with  thongs 
made  of  their  hide.  Hanging  from  his  back  was  a 
flageolet  of  green  reeds.  Doris  asked  him  to  make 
music  on  it,  which  he  did  uncommonly  well.  He 
had  fashioned  it  himself  out  of  a  donax  reed. 

He  was  a  charming  piece  of  rustic  beauty  and  as 
happy-souled  as  a  lizard.  His  goats  knew  his  voice 
so  well  that  one  word  from  him  would  make  them 
halt  or  march.  This  company  of  the  Evil  One  was 
well  trained.  Doris  was  of  course  perfectly  en- 
chanted with  the  boy;  he  had  successfully 
obliterated  the  memory  of  the  wounded  horse. 

"  I  want  to  buy  him,"  she  said,  "  and  to  keep 
him  at  that  age  for  ever.  Look  at  his  grey-blue, 
inscrutable  Sicilian  eyes ;  his  short,  crisp  curls,  and 
that  nose  as  straight  and  perfect  as  any  they 
chiselled  in  ancient  marble !  He  is  one  of  Sicily's 
perfect  human  things  of  fresh  air  and  sun,  one  of 
her  most  successful  efforts.  But  what  a  mask  a 
face  is,  after  all !  With  those  classic  brows  and 
those  deep  mysterious  eyes  one  would  expect  to 
find  a  delicate  mind,  a  shepherd  poet ;  but  I  suppose 
he  is  a  universal  human  boy  in  disguise,  after 
all." 

I  pointed  to  a  piece  of  rough  brown  bread  and  the 
bunch  of  green-leaved  white-rooted  fennel  in  one 
pocket,  and  to  a  small  native  earthenware  flask 
which  showed  its  grape-stained  nose  out  of  the  other 
slit  in  the  goatskin  coat. 

"  If  that  is  his  entire  food  for  the  day,  he  is  a 
most  aesthetic  person.     I  suppose,  when  he  is  not 


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BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      105 

composing  sweet  music  to  the  winds  and  sky,  he 
lies  about  on  the  hot  white  rocks  in  a  blessed  state 
of  dolce  far  niente.  One  day  he  will  be  called  upon 
to  serve  his  country,  and  for  two  years  those  fresh 
young  limbs  will  be  deformed  by  ill-shaped,  baggy 
trousers,  and  the  poor  classical  feet  will  be  forced 
into  boots  either  too  large  or  too  small.  Yet,  I 
suppose,  the  army  is  Italy's  national  civiliser." 

Our  days  in  Syracuse  are  drawing  to  a  close. 
Doris  is  going  to  Palermo,  and  I  am  permitted  to 
act  as  her  escort  for  a  few  days,  at  Girgenti,  en 
route.  She  is  also  quite  determined  to  sleep  for 
one  night  in  the  wonderful  mountain-town  of 
Castrogiovanni.  This  her  guardian  has  not  per- 
mitted her  to  do,  as  the  city  is  in  the  centre  of  the 
brigand  country.  However,  if  she  means  going, 
I  must  see  her  safely  to  Palermo,  and  take  in  a 
glimpse  of  Castrogiovanni  by  the  way. 

As  you  may  surmise,  I  do  not  look  forward  with 
any  degree  of  pleasure  to  this  trip  to  Palermo.  I 
dread  anything  that  may  disturb  the  happiness  of 
our  companionship.  We  are  going  because  every 
one  else  in  the  hotel  is  going  somewhere.  It  is 
warm  enough  now  to  visit  Taormina  and  Girgenti, 
so  the  tourists  are  like  the  swallows,  gathering  to- 
gether in  their  companies  for  flight.  In  England 
this  mustering  of  the  swallows  in  the  late  summer 
is  always  a  sudden  and  unpleasant  reminder  to  me 
of  grey  skies  and  cold  winds.  A  little  chill  creeps 
through  your  bones,  although  the  day  is  fine,  as 
you  watch  their  numbers  increase,  while  they  swoop 
and  circle  in  the  air,  as  it  does  when  a  funeral  passes 
through  some  gay  thoroughfare.  You  have  not 
yet  thought  of  the  winter,  the  summer  which  you 
waited  for  so  patiently  has  been  too  short ;  often  it 
has  never  come  at  all.     The  flowers  in  the  garden, 


106      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

which  cost  you  many  cold  months  of  toil  and  care, 
seem  only  to  have  blossomed  for  a  day.  Yet  the 
swallows  knell  the  hour  of  parting  summer;  that 
they  are  well  advised  you  may  be  sure. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February ,    1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

We  made  a  trip  up  the  famous  river  Anapo 
yesterday.  Herr  Mackintosh  and  the  three  sisters 
accompanied  us.  The  heads  of  the  papyrus-plants 
which  are  the  things  you  really  go  to  see  and  try  to 
steal,  are  very  like  glorified  cyperus,  the  feathery- 
headed  rush  which  men  cart  round  our  London 
streets  in  barrows  in  the  autumn.  The  papyrus 
grows  as  high  as  twenty  feet,  and  groves  of  it  border 
either  side  of  the  river,  which  is  so  narrow  in  some 
parts  that  our  boat  passed  under  a  continuous  arch 
of  green  for  about  half  a  mile.  On  a  warm  Sicilian 
day,  when  our  eyes  had  grown  weary  of  the  glitter- 
ing white  country,  the  cool  shade  afforded  by  these 
semi-tropical  plants  was  most  gracious.  The  swish- 
swish  of  our  oars  as  the  boatmen  dragged  them 
through  the  green  reeds,  and  the  moving  of  the 
light  feathery  heads  in  the  breeze,  did  wonders  to 
revive  us,  for  the  early  part  of  the  journey  had  been 
dull  and  uninteresting. 

This  is  the  only  place  in  Europe,  I  believe,  where 
the  papyrus-plant  grows  wild ;  there  may  be  some 
few  beds  planted  in  fountains,  or  in  garden  lakes, 
but  the  papyrus  of  the  Anapo  was  brought  to  Sicily 
by  the  Arabs  when  it  was  used  by  the  ancients  for 
making  paper.  It  is  even  attributed  to  Philistis, 
the  lovely  Egyptian  wife  of  Hiero  II.,  whose 
beauty  is  immortalised  on  her  husband's  coins.  I 
was  glad  to  see  that  it  is  most  carefully  guarded 

107 


108      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

now ;  not  more  than  one  head  is  allowed  to  be  cut 
for  each  boat-load  of  visitors. 

Miss  Adonaey  was  greatly  distressed  over  this,  as 
she  had  promised  to  take  a  twenty-foot-high  reed, 
with  a  fine  head  on  it,  back  to  the  Professor  of 
Greek  in  the  Lynn  University,  Mass.  But  the 
boatmen  were  not  to  be  bribed ;  I  fancy  the  heavy 
fine  they  have  to  pay  if  they  are  found  out  makes 
their  morals  incorruptible.  On  the  banks  of  the 
stream  where  the  plants  are  most  luxurious, 
watchers  are  hidden  in  the  thickets  to  spy  upon  the 
boats  passing  up  the  stream. 

The  river  ends  in  the  beautiful  "  Fountain  of 
Cyane,"  which  is  really  only  a  thirty-foot-deep 
natural  round  basin  surrounded  with  papyrus,  into 
which  a  clear  spring  bubbles  up  from  beneath.  It 
is  a  most  romantic  spot,  and  the  clearness  of  the 
water  is  amazing.  Big  grey-mullet  play  round 
about  and  inspect  the  bottom  of  the  boats  in  the 
most  fearless  fashion. 

The  German  decided  that  we  should  have  lunch 
here  so  that  the  fish  might  benefit  by  our  crumbs. 

He  was  most  attentive  to  Miss  Rosina  and 
untiring  in  his  efforts  to  capture  a  chameleon  for 
her.  We  had  seen  a  great  number  of  these  strange 
little  creatures  darting  about  among  the  stems  of 
the  papyrus.  Herr  Mackintosh  is  greatly  amazed 
at  Miss  Rosina's  lack  of  appetite.  He  pressed  her 
to  try  some  beef  which  was  cut  in  slices  and  folded 
in  some  cool  lettuce  leaves. 

M  But  you  must  eat!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Dis  is 
very  goot ;  I  haf  tasted  it  mineself .  It  is  zee  fillet, 
zee  most  sumptuous  part  of  zee  animal." 

Doris  could  not  refrain  from  laughing. 

"  Fancy  any  Sicilian  animal  being  sumptuous !" 
she  said ;  "  but  it  is  a  good  description  of  an  English 
fillet." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       109 

Miss  Rosina  followed  the  example  of  Doris  and 
let  her  frail  fingers  play  in  the  warm  water  as  our 
boat  moved  slowly  home.  As  if  by  accident  Herr 
Mackintosh  let  his  hand  also  slip  into  the  water  on 
Miss  Rosina 's  side  of  the  boat.  She  did  not  with- 
draw hers,  but  her  delicate  face  became  so  suffused 
with  blushes  that  Miss  Persephine,  perceiving  her 
heightened  colour,  exclaimed : 

"  Rosina,  my  dear,  you  are  feeling  the  sun  : 
change  sides  with  me — it  will  make  you  quite  sick ! " 

"  No,  thank  you,  sister,"  replied  Miss  Rosina 
with  some  spirit,  "  I  like  it ;  it  will  not  do  me  any 
harm ;  it  will  do  me  good." 

Doris  of  course  kept  her  head  turned  decently  to 
the  other  side  of  the  boat. 

"  It  seems  so  absurd  to  be  spoony  in  a  black 
German  mackintosh  on  a  bright  sunny  day,"  she 
said  afterwards.  "  It  quite  spoilt  the  sentiment. 
But  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  let  him  hold  your 
hand  in  the  water  than  out  of  it.  Which  shows 
that  Miss  Rosina  knows  something  about 
Germans." 

To  keep  our  minds  diverted  from  the  matter 
in  hand,  Herr  Mackintosh  explained  to  us  most 
clearly  and  simply  the  classical  legend  about  the 
Fountain  of  Cyane.  The  nymph  Cyane  was  trying 
to  prevent  Pluto  from  eloping  with  Proserpine  to 
the  infernal  regions,  when  she  was  metamorphosed 
into  that  azure  spring.  This  is  the  second  fountain 
in  Syracuse  which  owes  it  birth  to  the  meta- 
morphosis of  a  nymph.  You  remember  my  telling 
you  that  the  Fountain  of  Arethusa  bears  a  similar 
legend.  But  what  interests  us  English  more  is  the 
fact  that  it  was  at  the  fountain  of  Arethusa  that 
Nelson  watered  his  ships  before  the  battle  of  the 
Nile.     Since  Nelson's  time,   however,   an  earth- 

8 


110      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

quake  has  seen  fit  to  change  the  fresh  spring  into 
salt  water;  and  as  the  simple  days  of  nymphs  are 
over,  I  fear  it  must  remain  salt,  although  Sicily 
cannot  well  spare  her  fresh  water.  It  was  careless 
of  the  earthquake,  as  the  sea  is  everywhere,  while 
the  river  beds  are  dry  and  dusty.  Doris  said  the 
earthquake  might  have  turned  its  attention  to  the 
sea,  and  done  some  good  by  changing  that  into 
fresh  water.  For  your  benefit  I  will  quote  what 
Lord  Nelson  wrote  to  Sir  William  and  Lady 
Hamilton,  after  he  left  Syracuse  on  his  way 
south  : — "  My  dear  friends,  thanks  to  your  exer- 
tions, we  have  victualled  and  watered ;  and  surely, 
watering  at  the  fountain  of  Arethusa,  we  must  have 
victory." 

We  are  lazy  sightseers,  too  lazy  to  leave  our  boat 
and  the  cool  shelter  of  the  rustling  reeds  to  visit  the 
two  solitary  columns  which  we  saw  in  the  distance 
on  the  gently  rising  hill  to  the  left  of  the  stream. 
Two  broken  columns  are  all  that  to-day  remain  of 
the  temple  of  the  Olympian  Zeus,  which  belongs 
to  the  greatest  chapter  in  Syracusan  history. 

Doris  insisted  upon  Herr  Mackintosh  telling  us 
all  about  it  while  we  listened  comfortably  in  the 
boat. 

**  It  is  much  too  late  in  the  day  to  begin  doing 
methodical  sight-seeing,' 9  she  said.  "If  we  let 
ourselves  think  of  all  the  things  we  haven't  '  done  ' 
in  Syracuse  we  should  be  utterly  miserable.  We 
have  lived  amongst  classical  fragments  and  got  far 
too  used  to  seeing  them  in  the  landscape  to 
remember  to  *  do  '  them.  What  you  see  very 
often  you  are  so  apt  to  forget." 

I  could  give  you  a  list,  Louise,  long  enough  to 
frighten  an  American,  of  "  sights  "  which  I  have 
not  even  mentioned  in  my  letters.  But  how  can 
we  exhaust   in  one  bright   spring  what   it   took 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      111 

centuries  of  ancient  history  to  create?  It  seems 
presumptuous  to  try. 

However,  Herr  Mackintosh  has  "  done  "  it, 
although  I  doubt  if  he  has  made  acquaintance  with 
our  little  friends  the  blue  irises,  or  the  happy  family 
who  live  in  the  tomb.  He  knows,  of  course,  all 
about  the  disputed  tomb  of  Archimedes,  and  the 
tomb  of  Timoleon,  and  the  lost  tomb  of  Gelon, 
and  all  the  other  tombs  of  the  ancient  Syracusan 
swells.  But  Doris  and  I  prefer  to  keep  our 
acquaintance  with  the  goat-cheese  family  strictly 
private.  There  are  some  things  that  one  grows 
jealous  of  a  third  person  seeing  as  well  as  hearing. 

Great  Scott!  While  I  was  writing  just  now, 
Doris  almost  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck  with 
the  news  that  Cronje  has  surrendered  uncon- 
ditionally. He  has  thrown  up  the  sponge.  How 
strangely  the  news  came !  The  captain  of  H. M.S. 
Royal  Sovereign  is  staying  in  this  hotel  with  his 
wife.  He  went  into  the  city  of  Syracuse  this 
morning,  and  the  news  was  signalled  ashore  to  him 
from  his  ship,  which  is  riding  at  anchor  in  the 
Great  Harbour;  the  information  had  been  tele- 
graphed from  Malta.  So  for  once  we  have  had 
our  war  news  from  a  definite  and  sure  source. 

The  captain  met  Doris  on  his  way  through  the 
garden  to  the  hotel  and  told  her  the  good  news. 

How  will  Rumanio  behave  to-night,  I  wonder? 
The  attractions  of  Miss  Rosina  have  tempered  the 
feelings  of  Herr  Mackintosh  on  the  subject  of  siid 
Africa.  Miss  Rosina  is  all  with  the  English,  of 
course,  and  is  as  jealous  of  our  honour  as  the  most 
ardent  Britisher  born.  How  differently  people 
take  the  news  of  our  losses  or  success ! 

One  old  gentleman  made  Doris  feel  very  foolish. 
She  did  not  know  him,  but  having  good  news  to 


112      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

tell  made  her  feel  that  all  English  exiled  as  we  are 
should  be  friends  at  such  moments. 

Coming  on  her  way  through  the  garden  to  tell 
me,  she  passed  him  seated  at  a  little  table  examining 
some  pieces  of  "  rubbish,"  as  she  called  them. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news?"  she  asked  gaily, 
and  in  almost  breathless  excitement. 

"  What  news?"  he  replied,  lifting  his  cold  eyes 
for  one  moment  from  the  magnifying-glass  he  held 
in  his  hand. 

"  Cronje  has  surrendered,"  she  told  him,  u  un- 
conditionally!     Isn't  it  splendid?" 

Doris  looks  delightful  when  things  are 
11  splendid,"  but  this  did  not  affect  him. 

"  Has  he?"  he  said  laconically,  turning  his  eyes 
once  more  on  the  stones.  "  I  suppose  it  was 
expected  eventually." 

•  I  wanted,"  Doris  said  to  me,  "  to  sweep  my 
hand  across  the  table  and  throw  over  the  walls  of 
the  latomia  all  the  horrid  pieces  of  dry  bones  and 
ancient  skulls.  Why  should  decayed  bones  of 
forgotten  Greeks  be  more  interesting  to  an  English- 
man than  the  lives  of  his  living  countrymen?  In 
a  thousand  years  from  now  I  suppose  he  would 
think  even  an  English  Tommy's  skull  interesting ! 
I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think  I  put  my  tongue  out  at 
him  and  fled !     His  back  was  turned,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  Doris!"  I  rejoined,  "  and  I  thought  you 
were  growing  up  !  But  I  know  now  that  you  steal 
Madame  Politi's  sugar  and  put  your  tongue  out !" 

"  I  eat  sugar  because  nobody  gives  me  any 
sweets,"  she  replied;  "  and  some  old  men  make 
you  put  your  tongue  out.  The  lizards  do  it  so 
often  that  I  have  caught  their  trick." 

She  held  her  provoking  face  so  close  to  mine 
while  she  spoke,  that  if  by  chance  I  had  turned  my 
head  our  faces  must  have  met ;  but  I  remembered 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      113 

the  many  privileges  which  a  little  exercise  of  will 
had  blessed  me  with,  and  my  face  remained  turned 
to  my  letter. 

"lam  getting  so  tired  of  human  fossils,  aren't 
you?"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

"  Little  one,"  I  replied,  "  if  it  weren't  for  you 
I  expect  I  should  be  just  the  same  as  all  the  rest." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  she  said.  "  However  old 
you  are  you  will  die  young,  and  however  young 
these  people  are  in  years  they  were  born  old.  They 
have  all  such  long  noses !  I  know  long  noses  are 
considered  intellectual,  but  I  always  think  a  woman 
with  a  long  nose  looks  disappointed.  There  is 
something  cheerful  about  a  short  nose,  and  it  keeps 
its  youth  better,  and  gets  through  the  world  with- 
out showing  which  way  the  wind  blows,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  Some  short  noses,"  I  replied,  M  were  made  to 
tempt  mankind.  They  have  a  provoking  im- 
pudence about  them  which  inspires  us  to  teach 
their  owners  how  to  behave — to  tame  the  shrew." 

M  Yes,"  she  said,  "  long  noses  are  always  tame, 
even  in  their  cradles." 

Our  few  precious  days  are  flying  past  on  golden^ 
wings,  and  there  is  an  astonishing  amount  to  do  in 
a  place  like  this  if  once  the  charm  of  it  gets  hold 
of  you. 

How  hours  pass  unnoticed  at  open  windows, 
watching  the  south,  or  listening  to  the  cathedral 
bells  as  they  float  to  us  up  here,  mellowed  to  a 
silver  sweetness  by  their  passage  across  the  blue 
water !  The  sound  of  those  evening  bells  travelling 
through  the  vaulted  garden  unconsciously  com- 
mands at  least  a  moment's  silence,  a  little  sense  of 
aloofness  from  others  as  the  day  departs,  a  hush  of 
thankfulness  for  things  received.  Then  there  is 
Etna  to  bow  the  knee  to,  not  too  hurriedly,  every 


114      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

night  and  morning.  And,  alas !  at  12  noon  and  6 
p.m.  the  table  d9  hdte  meals  use  up  three  precious 
hours  of  each  day. 

After  that  your  golden  day  goes  no  further  than 
a  guinea  when  a  sixpence  has  been  taken  out  of  it 
to  buy  stamps. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

Ash  Wednesday. 

Dear  Louise, — 

To  us  this  is  the  first  day  of  summer,  for 
Etna  has  lost  her  covering  of  snow  and  therefore 
the  air  is  warm  even  in  the  shade.  While  the  snow 
lies  well  over  the  mountain  there  is  a  fresh  coolness 
in  the  air  which  makes  you  seek  the  sun  rather  than 
the  shade.  But  to  the  Sicilians  this  is  only  the  first 
day  of  spring,  and  a  grand  holiday  they  are  making 
of  it.  Last  night  King  Carnival  died  in  Syracuse, 
and  whether  Ash  Wednesday  is  reckoned  a  Church 
festival  or  secular,  I  do  not  know;  but  the  whole 
world  is  enjoying  itself  in  Sicily.  Every  cave  along 
rocky  Achradina  is  filled  with  happy  family  parties 
having  their  first  picnic  out  of  the  city.  Grand- 
fathers, grandmothers,  young  husbands  and  wives, 
and  lovers,  all  are  there,  while  the  babies  play  about 
the  sunny  rocks  like  young  kids. 

In  England  too  often  the  old  people  are  left  at 
home  on  such  outings,  and  the  lovers  take  their 
pleasures  sadly  if  they  are  not  permitted  to  spend 
the  day  by  themselves.  Here  in  simple  Sicily  they 
all  sit  in  a  family  circle  round  the  midday  meal, 
happier  because  of  the  family  gathering.  You 
would  be  surprised  at  the  elegance  of  the  coiffured 
heads  of  the  young  women.  They  are  as  glossy  and 
dark  as  a  raven's  wing,  and  in  many  cases  gaily 
ornamented  with  would-be  tortoiseshell  pins. 

Doris  wonders  how  these  girls,  living  in  the 
humblest  parts  of  a  forgotten  city,  gain  their  know- 

"5 


116      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

ledge  of  hair-dressing.  They  are  always  abreast  of 
the  latest  mode.  They  all  carry  a  bright  scarf  of 
silk  and  wool  to  throw  over  their  heads  at  sundown. 
Hats,  of  course,  find  no  place  in  their  wardrobes, 
although  their  dresses  are  pretty  and  tastefully 
made.  These  holiday-makers  of  Achradina  have 
little  in  common,  I  can  assure  you,  with  the  August 
Bank  Holiday  picnic-makers  of  Hampstead  Heath. 

In  one  of  the  latomias  called  the  Latomia  de 
Paradiso,  is  contained  the  Ear  of  Dionysius,  so 
called  because  of  the  legend  related  of  Dionysius 
that  he  had  the  walls  of  this  quarry  cut  in  such  a 
remarkable  manner  that  the  slightest  sound  in  any 
part  of  the  grotto  can  be  heard  by  a  person  seated 
in  the  aperture  at  the  upper  end.  Dionysius  is 
supposed  to  have  hidden  himself  there  and  listened 
unobserved  to  all  that  the  prisoners  said  down 
below.  On  account  of  this  rather  trumped-up 
story  this  particular  latomia  is  highly  popular, — 
Sicilians  love  a  trick  or  'cute  invention, — but  it  is 
not  nearly  so  beautiful  as  the  Latomia  di  S.  Venera, 
which  abounds  in  glorious  vegetation.  There  is  a 
curious  and  lovely  lagoon,  however,  in  it,  and  of 
course  a  piece  d'eau  is  always  popular  with  people 
who  live  in  a  dry  land  where  no  water  is. 

In  this  latomia  a  dance  was  taking  place  under 
the  shelter  of  an  immense  overhanging  rock.  The 
young  men  formed  one  half  of  the  circle,  while  the 
girls  with  their  chaperons  formed  the  other.  As 
we  passed  to  pay  our  respects  to  the  cool  lagoon 
and  to  the  popular  Ear,  a  musician  started  a  favour- 
ite Neapolitan  air,  and  the  dance  opened.  No  one 
can  ever  stand  quite  still  in  blood  or  body  when  a 
Neapolitan  tune  is  being  well  played, — it  makes  the 
nerves  tingle  like  new  wine. 

"  Look !"  Doris  said,  "  the  men  are  all  dancing 
together,  and  the  girls  are  doing  the  same.     How 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      117 

very  dull !  The  lovers  can  only  make  eyes  at  each 
other  and  hope  for  better  things." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  customs  introduced  from  the 
East,"  I  said,  "  which  has  never  died  out.  In  the 
East  such  a  thing  as  a  waltz,  or  any  dance  where 
a  man  and  woman  dance  together,  would  be  deemed 
shocking.  In  Italy,  amongst  the  lower  orders  the 
tarentella  is,  I  believe,  one  of  the  few  dances  where 
two  people  of  opposite  sex  dance  alone  and 
together.  In  it,  of  course,  the  girl  and  the  man 
dance  either  a  few  feet  apart,  facing  each  other,  or 
back  to  back." 

"  Poor  dears!"  Doris  said;  M  what  a  lot  they 
miss  by  being  so  particular !  I'm  glad  I'm  only  a 
middle-class  Englishwoman,  and  not  an  exclusive 
Sicilian  pauper." 

As  a  rule,  there  is  very  little  music  to  be  heard 
in  Sicily,  no  singing  or  playing  in  the  streets ;  but 
to-day  there's  a  sound  of  music  and  revelry  in  the 
air,  and  along  the  dusty  highroad  which  leads  from 
the  city  to  the  Greek  theatre  there  is  an  endless 
stream  of  high-wheeled  Sicilian  carts  bearing  their 
full  complement  of  Sicilian  families.  How  happy 
they  all  look  !  how  simple  !  how  picturesque  !  Not 
a  bit  of  shade  from  cap  or  unbrella  to  save  men  or 
children's  heads  from  the  blazing  sun,  and  not  an 
inch  of  free  room  to  release  a  still  limb.  The  old 
men  amuse  themselves  playing  with  the  boys  as  if 
they  were  frolicsome  puppies,  while  the  young 
mothers,  for  this  one  day  at  least,  are  free  from 
care.  Happy  lovers  sit  behind,  speaking  with  their 
eyes  as  only  Sicilians  can. 

The  whole  aspect  of  the  thing  pleased  Doris  ex- 
ceedingly— this  emptying  of  the  city  into  the 
country  to  spend  the  first  warm  day  in  perfect 
happiness,  asking  nothing  better  of  God  and  man 
than  the  joy  of  living  in  a  beautiful  land. 


118      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

There  were  no  Aunt  Sallys  erected  in  Neapolis, 
nor  noisy  merry-go-rounds.  The  people,  like  our- 
selves, had  no  desire  for  such  things.  They  had 
journeyed  to  enjoy  the  country. 

I  noticed  that  the  authorities  of  Syracuse  were 
careful  to  protect  their  ancient  monuments  from 
any  harm  which  might  befall  them  on  a  general 
holiday.  Two  mounted  policemen,  very  grand 
fellows  in  Sunday  plumes,  patrolled  the  Greek 
theatre  and  watched  the  road  to  the  amphitheatre. 
Not  that  I  think  it  was  the  least  necessary,  for  I  do 
not  believe  that  even  a  Syracusan  "  hooligan  M 
would  abuse  the  relics  of  which  the  country  is  so 
justly  proud.  He  is  not  the  London  arab,  who  is 
born  with  an  instinct  for  flinging  a  stone  at  any 
object  he  has  never  seen  before. 

Here  in  Sicily  a  hundred  generations  of  boys  have 
lived  and  played  amongst  these  favourite  ruins, 
until  the  Castle  of  Euryalus,  the  Ear  of  Dionysius, 
and  the  National  monuments  generally  have  become 
as  familiar  to  them  as  the  lions  of  Trafalgar  Square 
are  to  their  cousins  at  home.  .  .  . 

While  we  are  here  in  Sicily  unconsciously  study- 
ing ancient  history,  how  quickly  modern  history  is 
making  in  South  Africa!  Before  the  English 
papers  have  reached  us  to  confirm  the  news  that 
Cronje  has  indeed  surrendered,  word  comes  that 
Lord  Dundonald  has  entered  Ladysmith.  The 
Catania  paper  reports  that  "  London  is  delirious 
with  excitement.  The  ladies  of  high  society  are 
dancing  in  all  the  streets,  and  the  men  and  women 
throw  about  oranges  and  fruit  and  flowers  at 
Covent  Garden.  Ladies  do  not  object  to  police- 
men  kissing  them  in  the  streets.  For  once  Eng- 
land has  become  mad  with  joy." 

This  is  not  bad  for  a  Catania  paper,  is  it  now  ? 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      119 

Miss  Rosina  fell  to  weeping  on  Doris's  neck  to- 
night, half  from  excitement  over  the  good  news  and 
half  out  of  alarm  for  her  own  feelings.  She  is 
ashamed  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that  her  life  has 
been  a  little  more  interesting  since  she  has  become 
interesting  to  the  German.  I  believe  she  considers 
it  a  want  of  fine  feeling  to  feel  her  sorrow  less 
keenly.  I  wonder  if  a  German  will  ever  quite 
understand  such  delicate  sensibilities? 

But  Doris  says  it  doesn't  signify. 

"  Women  don't  expect  men  to  understand 
them ;  when  they  do,  they  are  generally  bad,  and 
to  be  avoided  as  husbands.  The  simple,  direct, 
manly  men  who  can  do  no  more  than  love  and 
wonder  are  safer.  When  a  man  ceases  to  wonder 
he  begins  to  be  bored." 

Doris  asked  Miss  Rosina  if  the  German  had 
already  proposed  to  her,  for  if  he  had  not  there  was 
no  reason  to  vex  herself.  No  woman  over  twenty 
need  have  a  proposal  if  she  would  rather  not. 

"  He  has  not  actually  offered  me  his  hand,  my 
dear,"  she  said  timidly. 

"  But  he  took  it  in  the  water,"  Doris  said,  M  and 
you  did  not  withdraw  it." 

Miss  Rosina  blushed. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  did  every  one  see  it?  How 
dreadful!     But  he  has  very  powerful  wrists." 

"  All  lovers  have,"  Doris  said;  M  German  or 
English — the  nationality  doesn't  matter." 

"  What  shall  I  do?"  Miss  Rosina  asked,  in 
blushing  trepidation.  She  liked  the  idea  of 
strength.  "  He  has  not  actually  said  anything 
which  could  be  taken  seriously ;  but  once  you  have 
a  knowledge  of  men,  my  dear,  you  always  know 
when  they  are  in  earnest.  He  is  so  thoughtful,  so 
careful  that  I  should  not  sit  in  draughts." 

"  Then  I'm  sure  he  would  make  you  a  good 


120      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

husband,"  Doris  said.  "  Do  accept  him,  Miss 
Rosina;  you  really  ought  to." 

"  He  is  lonely,  my  dear,  and  if  I  thought  I  could 
make  his  life  a  little  brighter,  I  would." 

M  Fm  sure  you  could,  and  although  a  German 
might  not  be  a  very  exciting  lover,  a  German  hus- 
band would  be  very  orthodox.  You  could  be  a 
useful  companion  to  him,  and  you  could  help  him 
in  his  work."  ("I  don't  know  what  his  work  is," 
Doris  said  to  me,  laughing;  "  but  I  know  the 
German  Government  does  not  permit  men  or 
women  of  leisure.")  "  You  really  ought  to  try  to 
forget  the  other  one." 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  forget  him,  my  dear,  for  I 
never  could  do  that.  He  was  a — a  glorious  lover ! 
Herr  Mackintosh  is  only  a  man  whom  I  can  respect 
enough  to  marry." 

And  then  she  fell  to  weeping  again  over  her  lost 
lover. 

"  Dear  child,"  she  cried  to  Doris,  "  dear  child, 
the  emptiness  of  these  years — the  emptiness! 
Sometimes  I  have  felt  the  touch  of  his  hand,  and 
such  a  wave  of  delicious  emotion  has  filled  me  that 
my  very  *  cheeks  '  have  burnt.  Then  sister  would 
say,  g  Rosina,  you  are  flushed :  has  the  wind  been 
too  much  for  you?'  And  back  would  come  the 
emptiness  and  the  dragging,  useless  hours." 

"  I  took  the  old  dear  in  my  arms,"  Doris  said, 
with  a  sob  in  her  voice  as  she  told  me,  u  and  loved 
her  a  great  deal.  Poor,  frail,  little  sentimental 
Miss  Rosina !  Once  she  is  married  to  the  German 
it  will  be  all  right ;  but  she  will  have  many  a  cry 
before  she  can  make  up  her  mind  to  desecrate  the 
memory  of  her  glorious  lover.  .  .  . 

"  Miss  Persephine  has  made  a  great  mistake," 
she  went  on  musingly.  "  She  has  spent  twenty 
years  of  her  life  in  sheltering  Miss  Rosina  from 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      121 

mankind,  and  in  loving  and  taking  sweet  care  of 
her ;  what  the  poor  thing  really  wanted  was  some- 
thing or  some  one  to  take  care  of.  Women  are 
born  to  take  care  of  things,  and  their  lives  go  wrong 
when  that  want  is  denied.  We  are  given  dolls  to 
make  mock  babies  of,  and  dolls'  houses  to  represent 
real  homes;  and  when  we  are  married  we  have 
husbands  whom  we  love  all  the  more  if  they  are 
helpless.  If  women  are  refused  husbands  and 
children  they  fly  to  county  councils  and  school 
boards.  But  most  of  us  prefer  husbands  and 
babies;  they  require  more  considerate  manage- 
ment." 

"  And  have  you  no  thought  for  the  poor  men 
who  have  no  women  to  take  care  of  them?"  I  said 
— M  the  helpless  ones  you  spoke  of?" 

"  No  man  need  want  one,"  she  said;  "  there  is 
always  a  woman  somewhere  longing  to  mother  a 
lonely  man.  A  villain  has  only  to  look  helpless, 
and  a  good  woman  will  forgive  him  enough  to 
marry  him." 

"  I  see,"  I  said  :  "  I  must  act  the  villain  and 
wear  a  helpless  look.  The  worst  of  it  is,  my  life 
has  been  so  self-reliant  about  matters  that  usually 
appeal  to  a  woman's  pity,  and  my  features  are  cast 
in  a  homely  mould  not  suited  to  a  villain's." 

"  Some  men,"  she  said,  "  prefer  remaining 
unmarried.     They  forget  their  duty  to  women." 

Yours,  in  the  late  hours  of  a  warm  Sicilian  night, 

J.  C. 


Villa  Politi,  Syracuse, 

February  28th,  1900. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

Doris  and  I  have  said  good-bye  to  our 
garden  this  morning,  the  saddest,  for  I  knew  that 
nothing  again  can  take  its  place  in  my  heart  at 
least. 

"  How  unhappy  the  old  American  lady  would 
be,"  Doris  said — the  one  with  the  pretty  maid  and 
the  manservant,  who  made  love  together  all  day 
long  in  the  latomia  while  their  mistress  was  study- 
ing Italian — if  she  had  left  undone  as  many  things 
as  we  have!" 

M  And  done  as  many  things  as  we  ought  not  to 
have  done?"  I  inquired. 

I  got  no  answer. 

"  I  suppose  a  pretty  girl  only  ought  to  do  what 
she  wants  to  do,"  I  said  presently,  returning  to  the 
charge.     "  You  need  have  nothing  on  your  con- 


science." 


"  Are  the  things  that  you  have  done  troubling 
you?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "it  is  something  which  I  have 
left  undone  which  annoys  me  most." 

"  The  old  lady,"  she  went  on,  not  regarding  my 
remark,  "  makes  a  point  of  repeating  to  herself 
every  night  before  she  goes  to  sleep  all  that  she  has 
seen  since  she  came  to  Europe.  For  the  first  three 
nights  it  was  comparatively  easy,  but  as  the  things 
multiplied  into  hundreds  and  hundreds  it  almost 
drove  her  crazy.     It  makes  her  dread  starting  out 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       123 

for  a  long  day's  sight-seeing.  Just  fancy,  after  a 
day  spent  in  doing  ancient  Syracuse,  having  to 
repeat  to  yourself  before  you  went  to  sleep  all  that 
you  had  seen  on  that  day  added  to  all  that  you  had 
seen  in  Rome  and  Florence.  I  would  rather  be  her 
maid,  and  allow  myself  to  be  fed  on  golden  oranges 
down  in  the  green  latomia." 

Etna  is  still  with  us,  but  her  ethereal  beauty  is 
now  a  thing  of  the  past.  Her  spotless  virginity  is 
tarnished.  You  can  see  the  black  lava  fields  and 
the  rocky  foothills  of  her  mighty  foundations.  Her 
mystery  has  vanished. 

"  You  feel  when  you  look  at  her,"  Doris  said, 
"  like  a  young  man  who  suddenly  realises  that  his 
lady-love  is  not  an  angel,  that  her  hair  is  waved 
with  <  Hinde's.'  " 

So  far,  snow-dazzling  Etna,  smiling  a  million 
enchanting  moods  caught  from  sun  and  clouds,  has 
been  an  ideal.  You  have  never  pictured  her  to 
yourself  as  a  vast  hiding-place  for  hundreds  of  poor 
villages,  where  men  and  women  and  children  drive 
out  starvation  by  patient  industry  and  grim  phil- 
osophy. You  do  not  remember  the  deadly  streams 
of  engulfing  lava  she  has  vomited  out  on  such  poor 
homes.  To  you  her  beautiful  mouth,  kissing  the 
high  heavens,  was  made  for  something  fairer.  No, 
we  have  never  thought  of  the  dark  side  of  Mother 
Etna ;  her  beauty  has  blinded  us. 

But  to-day,  dear  friend,  she  is  a  perfectly  human 
mountain.  You  find  yourself  for  the  first  time 
asking  practical  questions  about  her  length, 
breadth,  height,  and  her  possibilities  for  accommo- 
dating tourists.  Her  circumference  is  one  hundred 
and  eighty  miles ;  she  is  most  easily  ascended  from 
the  Taormina  district,  and  there  is  a  railway  which 
completes  the  circle  of  her  base  ! 

In  bidding  Syracuse  good-bye,  I  believe  we  are 


124      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

leaving  one  of  the  most  simple  spots  in  Europe. 
Where  else  can  you  find,  so  closely  blended 
together,  the  historical  interest  of  an  ancient  city, 
which  is  still  an  important  city  to-day,  the  primitive 
life  of  an  agricultural  country,  and  the  tale  of  the 
toilers  of  the  sea?  Here  heavy  oxen  plough  the 
fields  right  down  to  the  blue  sea's  edge,  while  the 
tunny  fishers,  busy  with  their  nets,  are  within 
hailing  distance  on  the  sea. 

The  goats  feed  on  the  rocks,  near  enough  to  the 
city  to  be  milked  in  the  streets  every  night  and 
mornings  for  the  Sicilian  wisely  prefers  seeing  his 
milk  drawn  from  the  goat  rather  than  from  a  can, 
and  the  goatherd  thinks  that  the  beast  might  as 
well  carry  the  milk  to  the  city  as  himself. 

Doris  says  she  would  prefer  this  method  of  receiv- 
ing her  milk  in  London,  but  she  is  afraid  that  the 
county  council  might  object  to  the  herds  of  cows 
going  from  door  to  door  in  the  busy  streets.  Sicily 
is  unvexed  by  the  lordship  of  county  councils,  and 
therefore  the  fine  flocks  of  goats,  sounding  their 
low-tongued  bells  up  the  narrow  streets  every  morn- 
ing, are  one  of  Doris's  girlish  pleasures.  But  then, 
as  she  has  often  remarked,  "  Great  countries  are  so 
very  unpicturesque — they  are  too  great  to  have 
simple  beauties.  You  are  proud  of  belonging  to 
the  greatest,  but  you  prefer  living  in  one  that  is  less 
great." 

We  have  said  good-bye  to  all  our  friends.  The 
old  general  kissed  Doris's  hands,  and  kissed  and 
kissed  them  again.  "  You  are  taking  all  the  sun- 
shine with  you,"  he  said ;  "  even  Sicily  will  be  dull 
to-day."  All  the  retainers  who  could  by  the 
thinnest  blood-tie  call  themselves  relatives  to  the 
servants  in  the  hotel  gathered  themselves  together 
at  the  foot  of  the  portico  steps  to  bid  us  adieu.  A 
servant  in  Sicily  always  expects  his  situation  to 


One  little  cave  maiden 


had  brought  Doris  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers 
as  a  parting  gift."  [To  face  p.    124. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       125 

support  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  his  relatives.  This 
makes  it  sometimes  difficult  for  a  stranger  to  know 
how  many  servants  a  gentleman's  house  or  an  hotel 
really  keeps.  It  is  a  relic  of  the  old  days,  I  suppose, 
when  a  man's  army  was  composed  of  his  servants. 

The  three  sisters  gave  us  a  very  tender  parting. 
Herr  Mackintosh  stood  close  to  Miss  Rosina's  side. 
He  has  assumed  for  the  last  two  days  an  air  of  great 
proprietorship ;  he  held  a  German  newspaper  over 
her  head  to  protect  her  from  the  really  fierce  sun. 
One  little  cave-maiden  had  slipped  through  the 
private  door  of  the  garden  which  opens  on  to  Achra- 
dina,  and  had  brought  Doris  a  bunch  of  wild-flowers 
as  a  parting  gift.  And  one  of  the  goatherds 
brought  a  baby  kid,  a  blunt-nosed  little  leggy  mite 
not  many  days  old,  and  offered  it  to  the  signorina. 

Doris,  it  appears,  without  my  knowledge,  had 
paid  a  parting  visit  to  the  tomb  of  the  cheese- 
makers,  and  had  distributed  among  the  women 
some  of  her  bodices,  what  she  calls  blouses.  A 
little  washing  we  had  seen  one  day,  held  down  to 
the  white  rocks  with  stones,  had  so  touched  her 
heart  that  she  had  planned  this  visit. 

There  were  four  little  garments,  the  like  of  which 
you  have  never  seen;  only  a  Sicilian  would  have 
deemed  them  worthy  of  washing.  The  poor  little 
tattered  shift  and  faded  shirt  would  scarcely  hang 
together ;  they  were  long  past  sewing.  Such  little 
baby  garments,  too,  made  out  of  the  queerest 
fragments ! 

While  we  were  looking  at  the  washing,  a  small 
scrap  of  brown  humanity  darted  out  from  behind  a 
big  rock ;  it  was  the  naked  owner  of  the  little  shirt. 
Did  he  think  we  were  going  to  steal  it,  I  wonder? 
Wise  little  philosopher,  he  was  making  use  of  God's 
warm  sunshine  while  his  washing  was  being  dried. 

To-day  I  understood  why  Doris  spent  so  much 

9 


126      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

time  last  week  in  a  draper's  shop  in  Syracuse — and 
such  a  draper's !  She  was  buying  cotton  material 
to  fashion  into  cool  blouses,  so  she  told  me  later. 
But  I  did  not  understand  at  the  time  that  the 
blouses  were  for  the  goodly  row  of  women  who  were 
standing,  full  of  pride  in  their  new  finery,  waiting 
to  bid  us  farewell  to-day.  The  wee  cutty  sark, 
whom  we  had  discovered  from  behind  the  rock, 
was  dressed  as  comfortably  as  a  child  could  be. 

"  It  was  like  their  good  taste,"  Doris  said,  M  to 
wear  the  presents  I  had  given  to  them,  to  show 
their  gratitude."  And  would  you  believe  it,  that 
all  these  fine,  new  bodices  have  been  effected  by 
their  own  ingenuity  out  of  one  pound's  worth  of 
material.  Cotton-prints  are  so  cheap  in  Sicily,  it 
is  sad  that  a  little  baby's  clothes  should  be  made  of 
patched  rags. 

11  Let  us  get  away  quickly,"  she  went  on,  "  or  I 
shall  cry  like  anything.  I  can't  bear  their  grati- 
tude, their  sad  faces,  their  lovely  eyes  and  smiles. 
What  have  I  done  to  deserve  it? — only  spent  one 
pound  between  them  all.  It  makes  me  ashamed. 
Avdntil  avdntil"  she  cried  to  the  patient  coach- 
man; and  with  a  mighty  cracking  of  whips,  and 
oft-repeated  addios  to  our  waving  friends,  we  dashed 
down  the  narrow  white-walled  road,  past  our  field 
of  tombs,  on  to  the  road  which  borders  the  sea, 
down  to  the  ferry,  and  past  the  washing  stream, 
until  at  last  we  were  out  on  the  dusty  Catania  road 
which  leads  to  the  railway  station. 

"Is  it  possible  that  we  are  passing  all  these 
familiar  sights  for  the  last  time?"  Doris  whispered. 
"  Our  friends,  our  garden,  the  dear  white  hotel  and 
Syracuse  are  all  slipping  behind  us.  Only  Etna  is 
journeying  with  us,  still  smiling  and  serene,  coldly 
unconscious  of  the  pain  at  our  hearts." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      127 

A  little  silence  stole  between  us ;  in  such  moments 
there  is  a  barrier  between  even  the  dearest  friends. 

I  fell  to  wondering  if  the  unspoken  fear  which 
hung  like  a  summer  cloud  upon  my  horizon  had 
touched  the  blue  of  the  girl's.  Did  she  foresee  the 
possibility  of  the  end  of  our  Eden  in  Sicily?  We 
had  not  been  driven  out  of  our  garden,  but  it  was 
behind  us,  nevertheless. 

Half  tears,  half  smiles,  she  turned  her  dear,  dear 
eyes  to  mine. 

"  Isn't  it  absurd?"  she  said.  u  We  are  on 
pleasure  bound,  we  are  starting  out  to  explore  fresh 
fields  of  beauty,  and  yet,  and  yet  we  are  too  sad  to 
speak !  Saying  good-bye  is  always  horrid*  One 
can't  help  looking  back,  and  back,  and  back.  How 
we  disliked  them  all  at  first !  Miss  Rosina  with  her 
faded  femininity,  the  German  with  his  German 
mackintosh,  the  dear  old  general  with  his  horrid 
Hybhean  honey." 

"  And  me?"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  and  you,"  she  replied;  "  with  your  pre- 
occupied air,  looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  silly 
schoolgirl  not  worth  considering.  When  I  asked 
you  to  hand  me  the  milk  for  my  tea,  you  offered  me 
the  mustard.  When  I  told  you  I  didn't  take  mus- 
tard in  my  tea,  I  half  expected  you  to  tell  me  that 
a  mustard  of  Syracuse  was  mentioned  in  Theocritus, 
— that  you  never  took  anything  else  with  your  tea 
in  Sicily." 

"  I  was  too  amazed  to  think,"  I  said.  "  I  never 
expected — none  of  us  ever  expected — we  had  grown 
so  accustomed " 

"  You  never  expected  to  see  a  mere  girl,  in  a 
sailor-hat  and  a  self-respecting  blouse ;  a  girl  who 
wasn't  so  overcome  by  the  greatness  of  Syracuse, 
or  the  burden  of  '  doing  '  it,  that  she  could  not  eat 
two  eggs  for  breakfast  and  boldly  refuse  Hyblaean 


128      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

honey.  Oh,  that  honey!  the  very  thought  of  it 
reminds  me  of  the  golden  syrup  you  buy  in  post- 
office  shops  in  English  villages.  The  syrup  is  so 
thick  that  it  has  to  be  urged  out  of  the  tin  with  the 
knife  which  divides  its  time  between  the  American 
cheese  and  the  rasher-bacon." 

And  so  with  heavy  hearts  we  talked  lightly, 
talked  over  our  happy  days  in  Syracuse,  as  if  we 
were  already  many  years  older  than  the  memories 
recalled. 

"  Whenever  I  think  of  Syracuse  in  after  years," 
Doris  said,  "  I  shall  always  see  a  world  of  white 
rocks,  white-plastered  walls,  and  white  roads 
touched  here  and  there  with  the  blue-green  of  the 
prickly  pears  :  a  white  desolate  scene  made  more 
desolate  by  the  black-draped  figure  of  a  woman 
riding  a  gentle-footed  ass." 

Yours  ever, 

J.  C. 


Castrogiovanni, 
March  2nd,  1900. 

It  is  strange  to  think,  dear  Louise,  that  this  letter, 
written  in  a  city  ancient  and  grey,  set  upon  a  hill 
three  thousand  feet  in  height,  right  in  the  centre  of 
Sicily,  will  be  opened  and  read  by  you  in  a  sheltered 
nook  in  green  Surrey.  Will  it  carry  any  of  the 
spirit  of  this  place  with  it,  I  wonder?  Castro- 
giovanni is  cold,  and  grey,  and  clean,  wind-blown 
from  corner  to  corner.  This  is  surely  not  Sicily, 
we  say  to  each  other  a  hundred  times  a  day;  and 
yet,  in  the  distance,  Etna  towers  over  all  and  checks 
the  words  on  our  lips.  Indeed,  we  feel  as  if  we 
were  in  no  country  named  in  a  cold-blooded  matter- 
of-fact  geography  which  deals  with  maps  and  plans. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  climb  the  Rigi  and  spend  one 
night  at  the  top  in  a  modern  hotel,  waiting  for  a 
modern  sunrise  along  with  twenty  dozen  other 
modern  tourists,  who  are  only  anxious  to  be  in 
Lucerne  by  the  next  evening.  But  here  are  we 
two,  limited  to  one  another  for  the  understanding 
of  speech,  quietly  playing  our  part  in  the  daily  lives 
of  a  people  who  think  nothing  strange  of  the  fact 
that  they  are  the  descendants  of  generations  of  men 
and  women  who  have  lived  up  in  the  clouds  and 
looked  down  on  the  plains  as  we  gaze  up  at  the 
clouds.  They  have  lived  cut  off  from  the  world  by 
an  impregnable  height,  where  only  eagles  love  to 
soar.     Can  we,  in  our  modern  London,  imagine 

how  a  city  can  continue  to  prosper  or  even  exist 

129 


130      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

with  no  traffic  in  its  streets  except  that  of  the  long 
trains  of  handsomely  harnessed  mules,  which  carry 
the  olives  and  grapes  to  and  from  the  surrounding 
country ;  a  city  with  no  hotels  and  no  daily  papers ; 
in  fact,  a  city  which  possesses  none  of  the  attributes 
of  a  city;  a  city  which  to  modern  eyes  looks  as 
if  it  had  been  abandoned  since  the  Middle  Ages? 
What  has  such  a  city,  with  its  natural  walls  of 
precipitous  rocks,  to  do  with  nineteenth-century 
men  and  women?  Doris  says  that  the  twenty 
thousand  odd  souls  who  live  up  here  among  the 
wild,  scudding  clouds  have  nothing  to  do  with 
nineteenth-century  men  and  women  of  our  world. 
But  they  are  men  and  women,  with  their  tragedies 
and  their  sorrows.  I  can  see  that,  for  even  here 
balconies  and  willing  servants  play  a  large  share  in 
Sicilian  love  affairs. 

We  left  Syracuse  in  summer  warmth,  grudging 
the  burden  of  providing  ourselves  with  warm  wraps, 
which  Madame  Politi  assured  us  we  shpuld  require. 
Here  it  is  mid-winter,  with  everjr  drop  of  water 
frozen  to  the  breath  on  my  moustache.  It  is  surely 
the  survival  of  the  fittest  with  the  inhabitants,  who 
live  to  man  or  womanhood  in  high  Castrogiovanni ; 
for,  with  no  fires  and  very  little  food,  children  must 
have  a  hardy  rearing.  Certainly  the  magnificent 
physique  of  the  men  proves  such  to  be  the  case.  I 
have  never  seen  finer  specimens  of  manhood  than 
the  inhabitants  of  Castrogiovanni ;  of  the  women- 
folk I  cannot  speak,  for  it  is  not  comme  il  faut  for 
women  to  walk  abroad  in  this  ancient  city,  even 
little  girls  being  kept  carefully  guarded  indoors. 
Wherefore  the  necessity  of  balconies  and  willing 
servants ! 

Nevertheless  this  is  a  wonderful  city,  the  most 
wonderful  thing  in  Sicily,  I  think ;  for  these  fine 


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BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      131 

Montesi  do  not  dream  that  their  city,  built  like  an 
eagle's  nest,  is  not  quite  abreast  with  the  times. 

They  point  proudly  to  their  electric  light : 
Sicilians  love  electric  light,  as  they  love  all  new  and 
ingenious  mechanical  tricks ;  and,  after  all,  electric 
light  does  look  very  clever  up  here,  where  you 
expect  flares  from  the  ancient  palace  torches  to 
light  you  on  your  way. 

From  the  highest  point  of  the  city  the  whole  of 
the  mountainous  world  seems  to  lie  spread  before 
you ;  that  is,  of  course,  when  the  hurrying  clouds 
have  rolled  off  our  city,  and  have  stormed  some 
other  height,  for  there  are  moments  and  even  half- 
hours  in  Castrogiovanni  when  we  look  at  each  other 
dimly  through  the  clouds,  as  Londoners  do  through 
a  white  fog.  But  when  the  clouds  lift,  a  world  of 
Alps,  not  snow-covered  as  in  Switzerland,  but  green 
with  carob  and  almond-trees  right  up  to  the  top, 
looks  greener  and  more  tranquil  even  than  before. 

The  vegetation  is  wonderful.  Mountains  higher 
than  Skiddaw  are  rich  in  semi-tropical  plants,  such 
as  the  cactus  (prickly-pear)  and  wild-palms.  Olives 
and  vines,  it  would  seem,  do  not  require  heat  so 
much  as  sunshine  and  dryness,  for  this  bitter  frosty 
weather  is  usual  up  here  until  the  late  spring.  On 
the  summit  of  this  particular  mountain  there  is  a 
famous  vineyard,  and  everywhere  the  blue-green  of 
the  cacti  casts  a  bloom  over  the  distant  landscape. 

The  cloud  effects  and  the  varying  lights  and 
shades  are  amazing.  If  you  don't  look  quickly  you 
are  sure  to  miss  some  wonder  revealed  by  a  rolling 
body  of  clouds.  Calascibetta,  a  sister  mountain 
city  to  Castrogiovanni,  was  discovered  by  us  in  this 
way.  We  had  not  previously  dreamt  of  its 
existence. 

We  keep  "  oh  "-ing  to  each  other  a  great  deal, 
and  expressing  a  wish  that  we  had  our  friends  here 


132      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

to  share  the  amazing  beauty  with  us,  and  yet  in  our 
hearts  I  believe  the  dearest  beauty  and  wonder  is 
that  we  are  here  in  this  cloud-world  by  our  two 
selves. 

I  can't  tell  you  what  age  Doris  ascribed  to  me 
when  she  sought  and  gained  permission  of  her 
guardian  to  allow  me  to  take  care  of  her  as  far  as 
Palermo.  But  it  is  of  myself  I  have  to  take  such 
very  great  care,  in  case  she  guesses  a  secret  which, 
if  she  knew,  would  rob  me  of  her  company. 

Before  going  further  I  should  tell  you  that 
Castrogiovanni  is  the  historical  Enna,  or  Henna. 
We  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  what  Freeman 
says  is  true,  that  M  not  a  vestige  is  left  of  the  famous 
temples  of  Demeter  (Ceres)  and  Proserpine,"  and 
therefore  we  have  not  troubled  our  unclassical 
minds  about  them.  This  is  shocking,  I  know,  but 
nevertheless  true.  We  have  read,  instead,  Cicero's 
account  of  the  city  which  he  visited  shortly  after 
Verres  had  robbed  it  of  sacred  treasures.  Doris 
will  dictate  it  to  me  while  I  write  it  out  for  your 
edification,  as  you  tell  me  you  have  failed  to  get  a 
copy  of  Cicero's  Orations  from  the  library.  It 
gives  you  a  better  idea  of  the  classical  importance  of 
Enna  than  anything  Freeman  has  to  say  on  the 
subject. 

"  For  thoughts  of  that  temple,  of  that  place,  of 
that  holy  religion  came  into  my  mind.  Everything 
seems  present  before  my  eyes, — the  day  on  which, 
when  I  had  arrived  at  Enna,  the  priests  of  Ceres 
came  to  meet  me  with  garlands  of  vervain,  and  with 
fillets;  the  concourse  of  citizens,  among  whom, 
while  I  was  addressing  them,  there  was  such  weep- 
ing and  groaning  that  the  most  bitter  grief  seemed 
to  have  taken  possession  of  the  whole. 

"  They  did  not  complain  of  the  absolute  way  in 
which  the  tenths  were  levied,  nor  of  the  plunder 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      133 

of  property,  nor  of  the  iniquity  of  tribunals,  nor  of 
that  man's  unhallowed  lusts,  nor  of  his  violence, 
nor  of  the  insults  by  which  they  had  been  oppressed 
and  overwhelmed.  It  was  the  divinity  of  Ceres, 
the  antiquity  of  their  sacred  observances,  the  holy 
veneration  due  to  their  temples,  which  they  wished 
should  have  atonement  made  to  them  by  the  punish- 
ment of  that  atrocious  and  audacious  man.  This 
indignation  of  theirs  was  so  great,  that  you  might 
suppose  that  Verres,  like  another  king  of  hell,  had 
come  to  Enna  and  had  carried  off  not  Proserpine, 
but  Ceres  herself.  And  in  truth  the  city  does  not 
appear  to  be  a  city,  but  a  shrine  of  Ceres.  The 
people  of  Enna  think  that  Ceres  dwells  among 
them,  so  that  they  appear  to  me  not  to  be  citizens 
of  that  city,  but  to  be  all  priests,  to  be  all  ministers 
and  officers  of  Ceres." 

Cicero,  of  all  people,  gives  us  the  desired  explana- 
tion why  Sicily  is  no  longer  a  corn-growing  country. 
He  says :  "  Although  there  are  many  and  various 
injuries  done  by  that  man  to  which  these  things  are 
owing,  still  this  one  cause,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
Sicilians,  is  the  most  weighty  of  all ;  for,  because  of 
the  insults  offered  to  Ceres,  they  believe  that  all  the 
crops  and  gifts  of  Ceres  have  perished  in  these 
districts." 

The  brute  Verres  did  not  take  the  actual  statue 
of  Ceres;  it  was  too  large,  the  difficulty  of  trans- 
portation from  such  a  city  was  too  great.  "  But  in 
the  right  hand  of  Ceres  there  stood  a  beautifully 
wrought  image  of  Victory;  and  this  he  wrenched 
out  of  the  hand  of  Ceres  and  carried  off." 

Doris  does  not  entirely  flout  the  idea  that  this 
insult  of  Verres  to  the  goddess  of  corn  may  have 
entirely  altered  the  agricultural  character  of  Sicily. 
How  else  can  we  account  for  the  marvellous 
change  ?     Cicero  asks  the  Roman  people  how  Sicily 


184      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

was  entitled  to  so  much  honour  and  respect  from 
them.  "  And  therefore  we  have  always  so 
esteemed  the  Island  of  Sicily  for  every  purpose,  as 
to  think  whatever  she  could  produce  was  not  so 
much  raised  among  the  Sicilians  as  stored  up  in  our 
own  homes.  When  did  she  not  deliver  the  corn 
which  she  was  bound  to  deliver  by  the  proper  day  ? 
When  did  she  fail  to  promise  us,  of  her  own 
accord,  whatever  she  thought  we  stood  in  need  of? 
When  did  she  ever  refuse  anything  that  was  exacted 
of  her?  Therefore  that  illustrious  Marcus  Cato, 
the  wise,  called  Sicily  a  storehouse  of  provisions  for 
our  republic — the  nurse  of  the  Roman  people." 

At  one  end  of  the  city  there  is  a  very  ancient 
citadel,  called  La  Rocca,  which  was  repaired  by 
King  Manfred.  At  the  opposite  end  of  the  town 
there  is  a  castle  which  was  built  by  Frederick  the 
Second  of  Aragon.  You  can  imagine  that  these 
two  ruinous  buildings,  rising  up  sheer  from  the  rock 
on  which  the  city  is  perched,  make  two  striking 
features  in  the  general  view. 

The  classical  fields  of  Enna,  where  Prosperine 
and  her  maidens  stopped  to  pick  the  hundred- 
headed  narcissus,  lie  in  the  plains  below.  On  our 
journey  here,  from  the  railway  train,  we  saw 
hundreds  of  these  delicate  spring  flowers  (I  cannot 
vouch  if  any  one  of  them  were  hundred-headed) 
blowing  in  the  fields.  We  have  brought  "  Free- 
man M  with  us  here,  as  we  no  longer  have  Herr 
Mackintosh  to  tell  us  more  simply  and  directly  the 
classical  legends  of  the  place.  But  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  we  have  been  compelled  to  leave  guide-books 
alone.  For  such  a  place  as  this — "  The  holiest 
place  of  Pagan  Sicily,"  as  Freeman  calls  it — is  quite 
beyond  our  poor  classical  understanding. 

We  must  be  content  to  take  Castrogiovanni  for 
what  it  is  worth  in  our  blind  eyes,  and  walk  gently, 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      135 

for  the  place  whereon  we  tread  is  holy  ground — so 
holy,  indeed,  that,  even  blindly  ignorant  as  we  are, 
we  can  feel  the  spirit  of  the  past  in  the  hurrying 
clouds,  in  the  wild  sulphurous  country,  and  in  this 
strangest  of  mediaeval  cities.  The  famous  Lake 
Pergusa,  so  elaborately  extolled  in  the  classics,  is 
distinctly  disappointing.  It  is  a  solitary  object 
made  barren  of  surrounding  vegetation  by  its 
volcanic  nature.  You  can  see  it  from  the  outer  rim 
of  the  city.  Perhaps  its  very  desolation  gives  an 
air  of  greater  mystery  and  impressiveness  to  the 
scene. 

But,  as  I  have  often  told  you,  there  are  ever  two 
Sicilies  for  us — the  one  which  we  love  and  under- 
stand, the  beautiful  mediaeval  Sicily  in  which  we 
two  nineteenth-century  individuals  are  privileged 
to  live,  and  the  other,  the  ancient  and  classical 
Sicily,  for  scholars  and  archaeologists,  who  know 
little  or  nothing  of  our  Sicily. 

u  Only  to  open  Freeman  on  a  subject  like  Castro- 
giovanni  makes  you  shudder,"  Doris  said : 
u  shudder  at  your  own  colossal  cheek  in  venturing 
to  come  to  such  a  place.  But  I  did  so  long  to  sleep 
for  one  night,  at  least,  like  an  eagle  up  on  the  rocks. 
Its  no  use  my  reading  anything  about  the  ancient 
Sikel  religion  of  the  place,  for  I  should  forget  it  all 
in  an  hour  after  we  had  left  the  town.  It  is  surely 
better  to  see  and  enjoy  the  things  we  do  under- 
stand and  shall  never  forget." 

I  quite  agreed  with  her,  and  so  we  have  resolved 
to  enjoy  Castrogiovanni  in  our  own  unpretentious 
way. 

After  Syracuse  it  seemed  such  a  green,  green 
world,  and  the  twin  hill  cities  look  like  two  fantastic 
castles  in  a  German  opera.  It  is  hard  to  believe, 
when  you  look  at  these  mystical  cities  soaring  to 
high  heaven,  that  twenty-five  thousand  human  souls 


136      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

find  a  meagre  living  in  them  to-day,  and  yet  a  living 
not  so  meagre  after  all,  although  what  they  make 
their  incomes  off  it  is  hard  to  say — selling  grapes 
and  olives  to  each  other,  I  suppose.  But  this  clean 
city  does  not  strike  the  stranger  as  poverty-ridden, 
and,  strange  to  say,  we  have  scarcely  seen  a  beggar 
in  the  streets.  The  licensed  church  poor,  of  course, 
do  not  count ;  they  have  the  Government  hall-mark 
upon  their  profession,  and  are  one  of  the  clever 
contrivances  of  a  pauper  country  for  supporting  its 
paupers  by  voluntary  contribution.  The  Govern- 
ment license  a  certain  number  of  poor,  who  are  sup- 
posed to  be  supported  by  the  pittance  of  the  faith- 
ful as  they  visit  the  church  daily  to  pray.  And 
truly  no  one  is  too  poor  to  give  to  a  beggar  in  Sicily. 
I  have  seen  touching  sights  to  illustrate  this  fact. 
The  blind  may  not  lead  the  blind,  but  the  starving 
certainly  feed  the  starving. 

The  men  here,  even  in  the  day-time,  wear  fine 
dark  blue  cloaks,  with  high-peaked  hood,  which  they 
pull  on  over  an  inner  cap  of  stockingette,  which  is 
worn  well  over  the  ears  in  true  Canadian  fashion. 
The  cloaks  are  much  larger  and  handsomer  than  any 
we  have  seen  hitherto.  Doris  is  greatly  delighted 
with  the  sight  of  these  tall  mountaineers  standing 
in  the  wind-blown  public  squares,  top-booted  and 
high-hooded,  fine,  erect  fellows,  a  strange  mixture 
of  prince  and  mountain-brigand. 

When  we  left  the  station  on  our  way  here — 
which,  although  it  lies  in  the  plains,  is  really  at  an 
elevation  of  many  hundreds  of  feet  above  the  sea- 
level — we  were  met  by  the  Regie  Poste,  an  anti- 
quated stage-coach  even  for  Sicily,  with  only  three 
seats  outside  and  an  uninviting  interior  seated  for 
six.  The  driver,  who  was  as  goodly  a  fellow  to 
look  at  as  ever  you  saw,  and  as  perfectly  limbed  as 
the  statue  of  a  Grecian  athlete,  at  once  took  us 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      137 

under  his  protection,  and  was  very  urgent  that 
Doris  should  go  inside. 

After  popping  her  head  in,  and  sniffing  the 
garlic-scented  atmosphere  with  her  unintellectual 
nose,  she  said  resolutely  : 

"  No,  not  for  worlds !  If  I  freeze  I  can't  go 
inside.  It  is  better  to  be  frozen  than  eaten  up 
alive." 

Our  host  was  distressed.  The  signorina  would 
be  very  ill.  She  had  no  idea  how  cold  it  would  be 
driving  up  the  mountain  to  the  city. 

We  unfastened  our  hold-all,  and  Doris  consented 
to  be  wrapped  up  in  my  Scotch  Inverness  cloak  as 
well  as  in  her  own  fur  coat.  And  so,  with  our  feet 
well  protected  by  some  suspicious-looking  rugs 
which  were  drawn  from  the  garlic-smelling  interior 
of  the  Regie  Poste,  we  started  for  the  city-crowned 
height.  What  a  cracking  of  whips !  what  a  jingling 
of  bells !  what  a  clear  crisp  air !  Each  of  the  four 
worn-out  horses  wore  a  fine  necklace  of  brass  bells. 

The  flash  pace  at  which  we  left  the  station,  where 
we  parted  from  the  porters  and  station-master  as  if 
from  old  friends,  soon  slackened  off  after  the  first 
mile  or  so,  and  the  rest  of  the  long  and  bitterly  cold 
journey  was  accomplished  at  a  walking  rate. 

In  Syracuse  the  almond-trees  were  in  leaf  and 
had  lost  their  pink  bloom;  here  every  valley  and 
hillside  reminds  one  of  a  Kentish  orchard  in  full 
flower.  Vegetation  is  much  more  backward, 
although  it  is  wonderfully  luxurious.  Mighty 
olive-trees  and  carobs  climb  the  hills  like  stately 
giants. 

All  the  way  Doris  kept  exclaiming,  u  Oh!  oh! 
oh !"  Each  burst  of  delight  from  her  smiling  lips 
brought  a  bow  or  an  answering  smile  from  our  fine 
driver.  His  native  curiosity  was  easily  aroused  in 
a  lovely  woman;  he  was  anxious  to  know  what 


138      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

relation  we  were  to  one  another.  At  last  he  was 
out  with  it : 

"  Are  you  his  daughter?"  he  asked,  pointing  to 
me. 

"  No,"  Doris  answered  with  dignity. 

"  The  beautiful  signora  is  perhaps  his  wife?" 

I  hated  the  little  smile  he  gave  as  he  asked  the 
question. 

"  No,"  Doris  said,  "  lam  not  his  wife." 

II  Ah,  he  is  your  uncle?" 

"  Leave  him  at  that,"  Doris  said ;  M  for  a  Sicilian 
would  never  understand. 

And  so  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  he  alluded  to 
me  as  the  "  Signore,  your  uncle."  He  chattered 
to  us  all  the  way,  supplying  us  with  a  great  deal  of 
interesting  information  and  showing  throughout  a 
certain  amount  of  intelligence.  Doris  kept  him 
smiling  by  her  side,  for  he  walked  at  a  brisk  pace 
and  let  the  horses  drive  themselves. 

He  evidently  thought  it  was  his  duty  to  entertain 
us,  for  when  he  was  not  talking  he  sang  in  a  most 
dramatic  manner  snatches  from  well-known  operas. 

"  You  can't  help  flirting  just  a  little  bit  with  such 
a  man,"  Doris  said.  "  Listen  to  him  singing  that 
song.  How  can  I  help  answering  his  eyes  ?  They 
are  full  of  laughter  and  romance  and  tragedy.  If  I 
express  my  admiration  for  a  certain  flower,  he 
manages  somehow  with  very  little  trouble  to  him- 
self to  find  one,  and  he  gives  it  to  me  in  a  way 
which  would  put  even  Miss  Rosina's  glorious  lover 
to  shame." 

Our  admiration  received  a  rude  shock,  however, 
at  the  end  of  our  journey.  Our  handsome  cavalier 
had  made  us  feel  that  the  paying  of  our  fare  would 
be  a  delicate  moment ;  but  his  fine  velvet  suit,  his 
slender-footed  top-boots  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  good  sportsman  rather  than  the  driver  of  the 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      139 

Royal  Mail  from  the  station  to  the  city.  But  when 
he  demanded  twenty-five  francs  as  our  fare,  instead 
of  the  three  which  was  the  proper  tariff,  the 
romance  fled ! 

I  pointed  to  the  tariff,  written  precisely  on  a 
card  inside  the  coach. 

M  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  are  quite  right.  One  and 
a  half  francs  per  head  is  the  fare  on  any  ordinary 
occasion  to  convey  people  to  and  from  the  station 
to  the  city.  But  you  wrote  to  the  landlord  of 
your  hotel  and  told  him  you  wished  a  carriage  to 
meet  you  at  the  station.  I  have  met  you  with  the 
Regie  Poste ;  you  must  pay  me  twenty-five  francs, 
the  price  of  a  carriage  hire." 

"  But  you  were  compelled  to  meet  the  train  in 
any  case,"  I  said;  "  you  have  to  carry  the  mail. 
We  have  a  right  to  a  seat  in  the  coach  at  tariff 
price." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  you,"  he  said; 
"  you  desired  a  conveyance,  and  you  have  had  one. 
A  private  carriage  would  have  cost  you  twenty-five 
francs,  so  you  must  pay  me  the  same." 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  I  said;  "  not  although  I  am 
the  only  stranger  in  the  country  for  a  hundred 
miles.  I  will  not  be  bullied  into  paying  you  a  cent 
more  than  the  tariff." 

The  padrdne  of  our  inn  came  to  our  rescue,  and 
told  the  fellow  to  be  off ;  but  in  a  not  very  summary 
manner,  which  argued  ill  for  our  chance  of  being 
treated  with  decent  honesty  by  him  when  the  time 
came  for  paying  our  hotel  bill. 

"  A  man  who  can  wear  a  cloak  like  a  draped 
statue,  and  speak  as  if  he  were  singing,  and  sings 
like  an  angel,  to  end  by  bullying  strangers  for  six 
times  the  amount  of  their  fare ;  What  a  blow  to 
my  romance !"  Doris  said.  "  Is  no  one  in  Sicily 
above  begging?     For  in  manner  and  bearing  the 


140      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

meanest  beggar  is  a  born  prince,  while  in  bearing 
and  manner  the  born  prince  is  a  beggar." 

I  must  close  this  letter  abruptly  if  it  is  to  catch 
the  Regie  Poste,  for  the  villain  of  whom  I  have 
just  been  writing  has  come  to  my  room  in  the  most 
gracious  and  friendly  way  to  ask  me  if  I  have  any 
telegrams  or  letters  to  send  to  the  station.  He 
entered,  cap  in  hand,  and  addressed  me  as  the  most 
illustrious  signore.  Truly  Sicily  is  a  law  unto  it- 
self, and  a  wonderful  revelation  in  the  gentle  art 
of  manners. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


Castrogiovanni, 

March  yrd,  igoo. 

Dear  Louise, — 

Our  Inn  !  I  wish  you  could  see  it.  I  bitterly 
repented  having  let  the  child  stay  the  night  in  this 
terrible  place,  but  we  were  so  taken  up  with  the 
wonder  and  beauty  of  it  that  we  delayed  looking  at 
our  rooms  until  it  was  too  late  to  return  to  the 
station  by  the  Regie  Poste.  We  were  ushered  into 
the  dilapidated  old  monastery  (where  we  were  told 
that  rooms  were  prepared  for  us)  by  an  old  man, 
who  was  so  completely  wrapped  up  in  cloaks  and 
shawls  that  there  was  little  to  be  seen  of  him  but  his 
wicked  black  eyes  and  snuff-discoloured  nose.  We 
stumbled  along  a  dark  and  wet-smelling  passage, 
and  felt  our  way  up  a  frail  staircase  not  two  feet  in 
width,  and  turned  along  a  still  darker  passage.  The 
trembling  old  man  in  the  shawl  called  out  to  us  to 
beware  of  a  hole  in  the  floor  of  the  passage,  and 
also  of  the  Greek-water  jugs  which  were  lying  in 
the  way.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  put  a  heavy 
key  into  a  heavy  lock  in  a  very  frail  and  foolish  door. 
Like  all  Sicilian  locks,  the  key  turned  twice  and  in 
the  opposite  direction  to  ours.  It  groaned  and 
reluctantly  unlocked.  The  huge  room  into  which 
we  were  asked  contained  one  small  bed,  with  the 
mattress  and  bed-clothing  rolled  in  a  bundle ;  the 
wooden  boards  in  place  of  springs  did  not  look 
sympathetic.  There  was  also  a  small  camp  wash- 
ing-stand and  a  window. 

Doris  ran  and  inspected  the  bed. 

141 

10 


142      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  It's  quite  clean,"  she  said,  with  happy  eyes. 
"  This  place  is  too  cold  for  fleas,  so  nothing  else 
matters.  Tell  the  man  we  will  stay.  Is  your  room 
next  door?     I  hope  so." 

"  I  will  sleep  on  your  mat  if  it  isn't,"  I  said. 
"  We  ought  never  to  have  come  to  such  a  place." 

"  I  think  it  is  great  fun.  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  .  .  . 
at  least,  not  now." 

"  Not  now,"  I  thought.  "  That  is  true  enough ; 
but  what  of  the  night,  when  all  children  and 
feminine  things  see  fear  and  avoid  corners?" 

There  is  no  front  door  to  the  wretched  hovel,  and 
any  fool  with  a  good  push  could  thrust  his  body 
through  the  thin  panel  of  the  bedroom  doors.  The 
heavy  lock  was  a  grim  jest. 

"  Will  you  tell  the  old  ruffian  that  we  will  stay?" 
she  repeated.  "  I  want  to  get  out  into  the  sun- 
shine again.  These  rooms  are  so  cold,  they  make 
one  nervous." 

"  I  want  to  ask  his  price,"  I  said,  "  or  he  will 
demand  six  times  the  just  price  when  we  leave." 

"  Even  six  times  the  just  price  won't  be  much 
in  a  place  like  this.  He  can't  ask  more  than  five 
francs  a  day  even  at  that  rate." 

M  Remember  your  cavalier,  the  coachman,"  I 
said,  "  and  let  him  be  a  lesson.  A  Sicilian  can  ask 
anything." 

u  I  don't  like  lessons,"  she  said.  "  I  never 
learnt  them ;  and  when  I  did  I  always  forgot  them." 

Out  in  the  street  it  was  bitterly  cold,  but  the 
evening  was  bright  and  clear.  We  soon  found  our- 
selves escorted  about  the  city  by  some  nicely 
mannered  boys  who  constituted  themselves  our 
guides. 

They  belonged  to  the  seminary  of  Castrogiovanni, 
and  were  well  up  in  the  classical  history  of  the 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      143 

place.  They  at  once  offered  to  show  us  the  sup- 
posed site  of  the  Temple  of  Ceres.  They  were  very 
proud  of  their  knowledge  of  French,  which  was  the 
French  of  Castrogiovanni  and  not  much  easier  to 
understand  than  their  local  Sicilian.  These  boys 
acted  as  a  sort  of  bodyguard,  and  helped  to  keep  off 
the  too-inquisitive  inhabitants,  who  stared  at  us  as 
if  we  had  been  strange  objects  let  out  from  a  show. 
The  whole  city  followed  us  about  with  unabating 
interest.  But  Doris  and  I  have  grown  accustomed 
to  this  sort  of  thing.  We  have  often  gathered 
together  a  following  of  people  in  the  narrow  streets 
of  Syracuse  that  any  Salvation  Army  band  would 
be  proud  of.  These  followers  do  not  molest 
strangers  in  any  way,  but  their  presence  sometimes 
gets  embarrassing,  especially  when  you  meet  a 
fellow-countryman.  On  such  occasions  you  feel  a 
fool  and  look  one. 

You  must  know  that  we  are  now  in  the  heart  of 
the  brigand  country,  and  this  has  been  a  very 
brigandy  year.  Before  coming  here  our  consul  in 
Syracuse  warned  us  not  to  make  any  excursions 
from  Castrogiovanni  into  the  surrounding  country. 
We  were  to  keep  to  the  Government  road ;  which 
is  heavily  garrisoned,  and  commands  an  extensive 
view  of  the  country.  Doris  is  rather  disappointed, 
I  think,  that  so  far  we  have  not  to  our  knowledge 
even  seen  a  brigand ;  and  yet,  as  she  says,  if  brigands 
are,  as  we  are  told,  only  farmers  fallen  upon  evil 
days,  we  probably  have  seen  many.  These  courtly- 
looking  old  gentlemen  riding  their  fine  mules  up  the 
steep  road  to  the  city  have  probably  turned  their 
hands  to  brigandage  in  their  day,  as  their  sons  will 
do  in  theirs!  If  the  olive  crop  is  good  and  the 
vintage  is  rich,  they  are  glad  enough,  no  doubt,  to 
remain  peaceful  citizens;  if  times  are  bad,  then 


144      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

their  deeds  will  be  likewise ;  the  mountain  fastnesses 
are  then  their  homes. 

Only  the  other  day,  if  you  would  believe  it,  a 
beautiful  girl  was  kidnapped  in  broad  daylight  in 
Palermo,  while  out  walking  with  her  mother,  and 
was  driven  off  into  the  country  by  her  daring  lover. 
She  was  waiting  to  cross  the  corso,  when  suddenly 
her  arms  were  pinioned  behind  her,  and  she  was 
lifted  into  a  closed  carriage,  a  handkerchief  being 
flung  over  the  mother's  eyes  at  the  same  moment. 

If  this  sort  of  thing  can  still  take  place  in  the 
main  thoroughfare  of  their  capital,  what  ho  for  the 
brigands  of  Castrogiovanni ! 

The  green  fields  and  the  flowing  waters  in  the 
rich  valleys  of  this  region  of  Sicily  bring  to  mind 
the  scenery  described  by  Theocritus  much  more 
than  the  rocky  wastes  round  Syracuse.  This  indeed 
seems  a  poet's  ideal  country,  and  you  can  well 
imagine  it  as  the  site  chosen  for  the  centre  of  the 
ancient  Sikelian  religion.  It  was  naturally  to  the 
hills  they  lifted  their  eyes,  and,  having  lifted  them, 
they  chose  this  crowning  height  for  the  foundation 
of  their  Mother  Temple. 

It  is  hard  to  convey  to  you  the  true  atmosphere 
of  the  place,  which  is  indeed  heavy  with  the  spirit 
of  the  past.  You  have  sometimes  felt  that  the 
ghosts  of  the  Middle  Ages  haunt  and  linger  in  some 
quaint  old-fashioned  town.  Here  we  are  actually 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  Pagan 
nymphs  and  deities. 

When  seven  o'clock  came  we  mentioned  to  our 
student  friends  that  we  were  anxious  to  discover  the 
restaurant  where  our  landlord  had  told  us  we  could 
find  our  meals.  They  gladly  escorted  us  to  a  house 
in  the  public  square — the  "  only  restaurant  suitable 
for  the  signorina."  It  was  almost  opposite  the 
dilapidated  monastery.     The  fine  pale-green  bronze 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      145 

grills  in  front  of  the  monastery  windows  gave  the 
exterior  of  the  building  quite  a  handsome  appear- 
ance. The  boys  left  us  with  a  request  that  they 
might  be  allowed  to  act  as  our  guides  again  next 
morning.  Doris,  of  course,  consented.  She  can- 
not refuse  these  gentle-mannered  Sicilian  boys. 
They  are  always  her  most  devoted  slaves,  and  these 
boys,  of  course,  desire  no  fees. 

The  entrance  to  our  restaurant  was  blocked  by 
a  flock  of  white  goats.  A  gipsy-looking  woman 
was  seated  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stone  stairs 
which  we  had  to  mount  to  reach  the  dining-room. 
She  was  busy  milking  a  magnificently  horned 
animal ;  she  made  way  for  us  to  pass  up  the  stairs, 
while  the  goat  inspected  us  suspiciously.  On  reach- 
ing the  top  we  looked  down  upon  the  typical 
Sicilian  scene.  The  goat  was  still  watching  us  with 
evil,  blinking  eyes.  Truly  goats  are  Sicily,  and 
Sicily  is  goats.  "  Temples  and  tombs  and  goats,' ' 
Doris  said.  u  These  are  the  three  things  which 
linger  in  the  mind,  and  whose  memory  never  deserts 
one." 

On  our  way  upstairs  we  passed  the  kitchen.  It 
had  the  usual  solid  brick  stove,  as  high  as  a  kitchen 
table,  covered  with  white  china  tiles.  On  the  top 
there  were  five  or  six  small  holes,  about  as  large  as 
would  be  made  by  the  removal  of  one  brick.  These 
holes  were  full  of  hot  charcoal,  and  a  handsome 
copper  saucepan  was  steaming  on  each.  A  Sicilian 
kitchen-maid  requires  no  coal-cellar.  She  keeps  a 
small  straw  basket  full  of  broken  pieces  of  fresh 
charcoal  near  her  stove.  When  the  charcoal 
embers  in  the  holes  absolutely  refuse  to  emit  any 
more  heat,  a  fresh  piece,  which  would  not  weigh 
one  ounce,  is  taken  from  the  basket  and  popped 
into  the  hole  to  renew  the  fire. 

"  When  you  look  at  their  stoves  do  you  wonder 


146      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

that  you  are  asked  to  bathe  in  a  teacup?"  Doris 
said.  "  But  the  miracle  of  miracles  is,  how  do  they 
contrive  to  bake  exquisite  pastry  and  delicious 
messes  over  two  ounces  of  hot  charcoal  in  a  small 
hole?  But  I  have  never  tasted  a  roasted  joint  in 
Sicily;  a  chicken  is  the  largest  thing  they  can 
achieve,  all  else  is  stewed." 

An  inviting  smell  greeted  us  as  we  passed  the 
open  door,  and  an  enormous  woman,  who  was  dish- 
ing a  copper  pot  full  of  macaroni  called  out  "  Good- 
evening,"  and  told  us  to  mount  still  higher.  A 
smart  captain  of  the  carabinieri  was  standing  beside 
the  woman.  A  striking  figure  he  looked  in  that 
dark  little  kitchen,  hot  with  many  steams  and 
smells.  He  wore  a  bright  blue  coat,  and  dangled 
a  very  long  sword. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  dressing  the  salad,"  Doris  said. 
"  Men  always  take  the  green  food  and  the  fish 
under  their  special  protection  at  home.  I  suppose 
it  is  the  same  thing  here." 

After  we  had  been  seated  at  the  table  for  a  few 
minutes  in  a  little  stuffy  room,  adorned  with  a  fine 
picture  of  Re  Umberto  and  Queen  Margherita — a 
dirty  little  room  without  one  redeeming  feature — 
the  spry  captain  made  his  appearance,  and  with 
a  magnificent  salute  he  swung  himself  out  of  his 
cloak,  cap,  and  sword. 

A  few  boon  companions  came  in  and  took  their 
places  beside  him. 

M  The  captain  thinks  it  is  his  impertinent  mous- 
tache I  am  admiring,"  Doris  said ;  "  he  has  twirled 
it  and  turned  it  a  hundred  times  for  my  benefit.  If 
he  only  knew  that  I  am  magnetised  by  the  way  the 
macaroni  crawls  down  his  throat !  It  is  like  some 
gigantic  worm  stretching  from  his  plate  to  his 
mouth." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      147 

He  was  eating  macaroni  in  the  approved  fashion. 
The  fork  is  placed  in  the  centre  of  a  plate  piled  high 
with  the  stuff.  You  turn  the  fork  round  and  round 
slowly,  like  the  handle  of  a  mill,  bend  your  mouth 
to  it,  and  draw  it  in !  The  Sicilian  never  stops  till 
the  long  coil  has  disappeared,  and  I  believe  that  the 
connoisseurs  would  tell  you  that  it  is  as  wrong  to 
chew  macaroni  as  it  is  to  bite  an  oyster.  No  one 
speaks  to  the  man  at  the  macaroni  mill. 

Considering  the  place,  our  dinner  was  fairly  good. 
Sicilians  are  born  cooks  when  they  can  get  anything 
worth  cooking,  and  they  can  make  as  much  out  of 
nothing  as  most  frugal  nations. 

The  children  of  the  landlady  played  cards  with 
the  captain  and  his  friends  during  dinner.  I  fancy 
the  handsome  young  fool  enjoyed  showing  Doris 
how  fond  the  little  girl  was  of  him.  But,  as  Doris 
said,  "  In  Sicily  every  feminine  thing  in  petticoats 
is  a  woman  and  a  flirt."  This  six-year-old  child 
displayed  as  much  knowledge  of  her  femininity  as 
a  woman  of  thirty.  Her  dramatic  gestures  and  her 
flashing  almond  eyes  were  woman's  wiles.  At  six 
years  old  she  had  passed  through  babyhood  and 
childhood. 

After  dinner  our  landlady  asked  us  if  we  were 
satisfied,  thinking  that  her  charges  would  be  very 
moderate,  we  could  not  but  say  yes.  We  wished 
her  good-night,  and  received  another  gracious  salute 
from  the  captain.  I  could  almost  excuse  his 
languishing  look  at  Doris  as  she  smiled  good-night 
in  return.  She  stood  so  clean  and  fair  in  the  smoke- 
begrimed  little  room ;  her  very  presence  there  was 
an  absurdity.  I  am  sure  she  is  the  first  pretty 
Englishwoman  who  has  graced  this  poor  inn.  We 
found  our  way  down  the  dark  stairs  and  across  the 
cold,  clean  town  square,  where  the  men,  in  their 


148      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

wind-blown  high-peaked  cloaks,  looked  like  giant 
bats  in  the  dark  night.  The  sharp  air  caught  our 
breath  after  the  heat  of  the  small  restaurant,  and 
we  shivered ;  the  thought  of  the  cold  dark  monas- 
tery was  not  inviting. 

We  found  our  way  along  the  narrow  passage  to 
the  side  door,  where  we  expected  to  find  a  light  to 
lighten  our  darkness ;  but  none  had  been  provided. 
In  Castrogiovanni  they  do  not  consider  it  necessary 
to  look  after  the  comfort  of  their  visitors. 

I  struck  a  match.  It  was  the  last,  the  last  I 
possessed  of  that  noble  race  of  u  Bryant  &  May's." 

When  the  flame  burnt  out  and  left  us  in  a  more 
baffling  darkness  than  before,  we  felt  completely 
cut  off  from  the  civilised  world.  The  death  of  that 
sturdy  English  match  was  the  parting  knell.  We 
stumbled  along  the  dark  passages,  feeling  our  way 
carefully,  mindful  of  the  Greek  water-pitchers,  and 
of  the  hole  in  the  floor. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  Sicilian  match  was 
struck,  and  feebly  spluttered  into  being.  Doris  in- 
stantly caught  my  arm.  A  hand  from  under  a 
heavy  cloak  lit  a  sludge  lamp,  and  a  voice  whined 
for  money. 

"  If  we  give  him  any,"  she  said,  he  might  call 
again  for  some  more  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
and  although  the  locks  unlock  twice,  you  need  only 
kick  once  at  the  door  to  get  your  body  through. 
Front  doors  are  a  convenience  to  a  house,  after 
all." 

The  whining  voice  still  whined  :  u  Fdme,  signor- 
ina,  molto  fdme." 

When  I  refused  the  man  money  and  told  him  to 
be  off,  the  tone  of  his  voice  suddenly  altered.  He 
was  a  porter.  "  Might  he  come  for  our  baggage 
next  morning?"     He  was  evidently  convinced  that 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      149 

one  night  in  such  a  place  would  be  sufficient  for  us. 
I  promised  him  our  patronage  and  told  him  to 
go. 

"  I  suppose  the  Greek  pitchers  are  his  pillows 
and  his  cloak  is  his  blanket,"  Doris  said,  u  for  he 
has  no  intention  of  leaving  the  building." 

The  wind  was  blowing  through  a  dilapidated  roof, 
and  the  whole  place  was  inconceivably  desolate. 

1 '  Are  you  afraid  ? ' '  I  said.  * '  We  could  go  back 
to  the  restaurant  and  sit  up  all  night.  At  least 
there  is  warmth  there. ' ' 

"  No,  I'm  not  exactly  frightened,"  she  said, 
"  but  it  is  rather  draughty.  It  would  never  do  to 
go  back  to  the  restaurant,  for  the  landlady  told  me 
that  these  two  rooms  had  been  prepared  especially 
for  us,  because  we  were  English,  and  therefore 
would  not  care  to  share  the  common  sleeping-room 
in  the  restaurant.  She  has  one  room  there  with 
twenty  beds  in  it.  Germans  like  it  very  much,  she 
said,  but  the  English  are  more  difficult — they  are 
less  sociable." 

"  Castrogiovanni  is  cold,"  I  said.  "  That  is  one 
thing  to  be  argued  in  favour  of  the  plan,  and  for 
another  there  is  safety  in  numbers." 

"  Don't  say  such  horrid  things !  We  will  be 
perfectly  safe  here;  there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of." 

The  voice  did  not  sound  as  brave  as  the  words. 

"  I  will  lie  awake  all  night,"  I  said,  "  in  any  case. 
So  try  to  sleep,  and  don't  be  nervous." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  nervous,"  she  replied,  a  little 
haughtily,  "  only  anxious.  It  would  be  very 
awkward  to  be  kidnapped  without  one's  clothes. 
It's  so  cold  up  here." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  I  said.  "  But  even  a 
brigand  in  Sicily  would  give  a  lady  time  enough  to 


150      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

dress  in  cold  weather.     They  have  perfect  man- 


ners." 


The  long  day  spent  in  the  keen  air  got  the  better 
of  my  romantic  determination  to  remain  awake  for 
her  sake,  and  it  seemed  only  a  few  minutes  from 
the  hour  of  our  parting  in  the  dark  passage  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night  till  eight  o'clock  next  morning, 
wrhen  I  heard  a  fresh  young  voice,  full  of  the  courage 
and  assurance  of  bright  daylight,  call  out  behind 
my  door — 

"  No  fleas  and  no  brigands.  I  feel  as  fit  as  a 
fiddle.  I  have  slept  so  soundly.  You  must  be 
tired,  poor  thing,  after  having  lain  awake  all  night." 

"  Oh,  I  slept  beautifully!"  I  said,  forgetting 
altogether  my  promise  of  the  night  before.  I 
heard  a  smothered  laugh. 

"  Did  you  really  ?  I  wonder  if  Herr  Mackintosh 
would  have  kept  awake  if  Miss  Rosina  had  been 
sleeping  next  door?  I'm  afraid  you  are  not  to  be 
depended  upon." 

I  was  out  qf  my  room  by  this  time,  and  I  saw  the 
laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"  Supposing  I  had  been  too  nervous  to  sleep," 
she  said,  u  wouldn't  it  have  been  most  ungallant  of 
you  to  have  been  fast  asleep  next  door?" 

"  You  would  never  have  known,"  I  said.  "  I 
should  not  have  been  foolish  enough  to  tell  you." 

"  But  I  should  have  known  all  the  same,"  she 
said,  with  quiet  assurance.  M  You  couldn't  have 
deceived  me." 

"  Have  I  such  a  very  honest  face?"  I  said. 
"  Can  you  always  read  the  truth  in  my  eyes?" 

A  little  blush  warmed  her  cheeks. 

M  About  your  eyes  I  don't  know,"  she  said — "  I 
never  tried  to  read  them ;  but  I  have  been  compelled 
to  listen  to  your  snores." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      151 

"  Oh,  Doris!"  I  said;  "  I'm  certain  that's  not 
true.     I  never  snore." 

"  No  man  or  woman  was  ever  yet  honest  enough 
to  own  that  he  or  she  snored,"  she  said;  "  they'd 
rather  confess  to  a  murder.    I  wonder  why?" 

u  Because  it  is  difficult  to  love  a  person  who 
snores,"  I  said.  "  It  is  not  a  criminal  offence,  but 
it  is  very  unromantic.  Try  to  picture  any  great 
hero  snoring,  and  he  becomes  commonplace  at 
once." 

"  Napoleon  must  have  snored,"  she  said;  "  he 
had  a  snoring  neck." 

"  Napoleon  was  a  law  unto  himself,"  I  said. 
"  Even  fatness  and  snoring  could  not  have  dimmed 
the  halo  of  romance  which  surrounds  him.  When 
I  hear  people  trying  to  define  genius  I  simply  say 
6  Napoleon.'  "  ' 

"  Snoring  may  not  be  romantic,"  she  said,  "  but 
it  sounds  contented." 

We  hurried  across  the  square  to  the  restaurant. 
How  welcome  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  would  be !  We 
took  our  seats  at  the  table,  which  still  retained  the 
crumbs  and  tobacco-ash  of  the  night  before.  The 
landlady  appeared  and  placed  two  scaldini  full  of 
hot  charcoal,  on  the  table  in  front  of  us.  We  held 
our  hands  over  the  grated  lids  to  thaw  our  benumbed 
fingers. 

"  It  was  a  brave  person  who  washed  much  this 
morning,"  Doris  said.  "  I  don't  think  I  ever 
bathed  my  face  in  really  cold  water  before.  But 
what  fun  it  all  is!" 

The  scaldini  were  beautiful  old  copper  goblets 
with  four  crossed  brass  handles  over  the  top.  After 
the  coffee  was  served,  the  landlady  brought  her  two 
children  and  stood  watching  us  drink  it.  The  little 
flirt  of  the  night  before  was  really  a  lovely  child,  the 
other  was  pale  and  heavy-eyed. 


152      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Doris  invited  the  woman  to  sit  down. 

"  She  has  already  asked  me  a  whole  list  of  the 
usual  questions,"  she  said,  with  an  amused  smile. 
"  The  coach-driver  has  informed  her  of  our  relation- 
ship to  each  other.  But  now  she  wishes  to  know, 
How  long  have  I  been  away  from  home?  When 
am  I  going  back?  If  I  live  in  England? — which, 
in  her  mind,  of  course,  means  London.  Are  you 
married?  Have  you  any  children  of  your  own? 
We  can  answer  the  questions  just  as  we  like,  and 
she  will  repeat  them  to  the  fine  captain  to-night  at 
dinner.  It  never  seems  to  enter  her  head  that  we 
should  tell  her  anything  but  the  truth.  But  I  will 
forgive  her  many  things,  for  the  coffee  is  excellent 
and  fresh-made.  It  is  a  true  saying  about  restau- 
rants :  that  where  a  few  men  are  gathered  together 
there  will  the  food  be  excellent,  but  where  only  a 
few  women  are  to  be  found  there  will  be  no  food  at 
all.  Women  may  dress  to  annoy  other  women, 
but  they  cook  to  please  men.  If  a  party  of  school- 
mistresses dined  here  every  night  in  place  of  that 
long-sworded  police  captain  and  his  subordinates, 
I  should  have  been  sorry  for  our  chance  of  a 
dinner." 

When  we  had  finished  our  coffee  we  were  not 
allowed  to  linger,  for,  punctual  to  the  moment,  our 
young  friends  showed  themselves  at  the  door.  It 
was  Sunday,  a  thing  one  is  rather  apt  to  overlook 
in  a  little  town  with  no  shops,  and  where  the  church 
bells  do  not  wait  for  Sunday  to  ring.  But  the 
students  had  honoured  the  day  by  wearing  gloves. 
We  spent  the  morning  in  inspecting  the  ruins  of 
the  two  ancient  castles,  and  in  admiring  one  or  two 
fine  palaces.  But  the  sight  which  pleased  us  most 
was  a  pack  of  sleek  black  mules,  harnessed  in  their 
Sunday-best.  The  straps  and  trappings  were 
made  of  soft  leather,  richly  embroidered  and  em- 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      158 

bossed  with  red  and  yellow  cloth ;  the  saddle-bags 
were  quite  rich  enough  for  drawing-room  cushions. 
The  faces  of  the  animals  were  almost  hidden  in  the 
elaborate  wool  harness  and  scarlet  fringes ;  a  copper 
bell  rested  on  the  forehead  of  each  mule.  In  the 
cold,  grey,  silent  streets  this  long  procession  of 
richly  trapped  mules  made  a  strangely  mediaeval 
sight.  They  looked  as  though  they  had  been  cut 
out  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli's  frescoes.  Doris  was  dis- 
appointed not  to  see  a  monkey  seated  on  the  hind- 
quarters of  one  mule  and  a  nigger  page  following 
another,  and  the  young  Medici  dominating  the 
picture.  The  man  in  charge  of  the  mules  was 
equally  pleased  with  our  openly  expressed  admira- 
tion of  the  beasts  and  their  harness.  I  don't  know 
what  they  were  going  to  carry,  or  where  they  were 
going  to,  but  I  suppose  there  was  some  purpose  in 
their  picturesqueness.  They  certainly  gave  us  a 
good  deal  of  pleasure,  and  they  suited  the  place 
uncommonly  well. 

Carts  and  horses  there  are  none  in  Castro- 
giovanni.  But  there  are  dogs,  and  the  dogs  of 
Castrogiovanni  are  like  no  mortal  dogs  you  have 
ever  seen.  There  can  be  no  tax  on  dogs  in  Sicily, 
which  is  a  pity ;  for  even  a  tax  of  a  soldo  a  head 
would  put  out  of  existence  hundreds  of  these  lank, 
cowering  beasts.  They  belong  to  no  known  breed 
or  kind,  these  shivering,  starving  mongrels,  so 
debilitated  through  starvation  or  in  breeding  that 
they  have  not  the  pluck  to  run  away  if  they  are 
kicked.  In  a  dirty  town  there  is  always  some  refuse 
for  a  dog  to  devour,  but  here  there  is  no  need  for 
such  street  scavengers,  for  the  wind  carries  all  before 
it.  Not  the  most  vigilant  microbe  could  find  a 
hiding-place  in  this  city  in  the  clouds.  These 
empty,  meek-eyed  dogs  have  neither  guts  enough 


156      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

mafia  is,  in  short,  a  king  of  terror,  which  governs 
Sicily  with  a  despotic  hand.  No  man's  soul  is  his 
own ;  it  belongs  to  the  mafia.  If  he  is  told  to  com- 
mit a  crime,  he  must  commit  a  crime.  And  yet, 
by  no  means  confuse  it  with  anarchism ;  for  these 
two  evils  are  distinct,  and  work,  I  believe,  on  differ- 
ent methods.  Both,  however,  unfortunately 
flourish.  I  do  not  believe  that  Sicily  wishes  to  be 
wicked;  it  would  be  good  if  circumstances  would 
allow  it.  The  evil  that  it  does  is  the  result  of  wild 
desperation  and  misery. 

Taken  individually  they  are  simple,  lovable 
people,  with  the  inherited  good  breeding  of  gener- 
ations of  men  and  women  of  gentle  manners.  I 
have  not  seen  a  brutalised  woman  in  Sicily,  but  I 
have  seen  a  desperate  mother,  who  would  murder 
a  stranger  to  give  food  to  her  starving  child.  This 
is  not  brutality,  but  the  wonderful  thing  God  plants 
in  the  hearts  of  mothers  at  the  birth  of  their  first- 
born. Nor  have  I  seen  a  drunken  woman,  nor 
heard  a  mother's  voice  raised  in  abusive  anger. 
Can  this  be  said  of  countries  which  are  considered 
more  civilised  and  advanced  because  they  are  free 
of  brigands  and  the  mafia? 

But  I  have  left  Castrogiovanni.  Living  in  the 
centre  of  the  brigand  country  brought  me  to  the 
subject  of  the  mafia,  which  is  of  course  subtly  con- 
nected with  brigandage,  as  it  is  with  everything  else 
that  is  worst  in  Sicily. 

There  is  a  museum  in  Castrogiovanni,  which 
keeps  its  doors  open  all  day  long,  and  is  guarded  by 
no  custodian  or  curator.  This,  I  think,  speaks  well 
for  the  honesty  of  the  citizens,  as  the  room  (which 
is  dignified  by  the  term  museum)  contains  one 
object  at  least  of  great  money  value.  It  is  a  reredos 
of  enormous  size  made  of  solid  silver. 

It  represents  the  interior  of  a  basilica,  and  the 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      157 

vista  of  the  high  altar  with  the  priest  elevating  the 
host  is  magnificently  achieved.  The  ingenious  way 
in  which  the  pillars  of  the  basilica  stand  out  from 
the  background  gives  the  desired  effect  of  distance 
to  the  high  altar.  The  workmanship  is,  I  fancy, 
sixteenth  century.  It  is  a  pity  it  is  not  used  in  the 
cathedral  now,  for  the  effect  would  be  magnificent 
with  hundreds  of  candles  lighting  it  up. 

This  enormous  mass  of  silver  stands  in  this 
solitary  room,  forgotten  and  totally  unguarded. 
Perhaps  you  scarcely  realise  what  the  sight  of  so 
much  silver  means  to  a  Sicilian,  until  you  live  in  a 
country  where  a  larger  coin  than  a  franc  is  not  often 
passed  in  silver,  and  where  a  gold  coin  is  never  seen 
except  in  the  hands  of  a  foreigner.  This  reminds 
me  of  rather  an  interesting  fact — the  reason  why 
there  is  so  much  difficulty  in  buying  any  of  the 
beautiful  old  Italian  jewellery — the  delicate  neck- 
laces or  long  earrings  threaded  with  real  pearls 
which  form  part  of  the  dowry  of  the  Italian  or 
Sicilian  peasant-girl.  There  is  so  little  gold  in  the 
Kingdom  of  Italy  that  the  Government,  anxious  to 
retain  all  that  there  is,  are  wise  enough  to  offer  a 
very  fair  value  in  paper  money  for  all  the  second- 
hand gold  jewellery  which  comes  into  the  market. 

The  peasant  does  not,  therefore,  sell  his  trinkets 
to  the  ordinary  pawnbroker  or  dealer  in  antiques. 
He  goes  to  the  Government  Mont-de-piete  and  de- 
posits them  there.  Of  course  he  does  not  get  the 
real  value  of  the  article  he  is  selling,  taken  from  the 
point  of  view  of  what  a  Jew  dealer  would  charge  a 
stranger  for  the  same  article;  but  then,  neither 
would  he  if  he  took  it  to  the  Jew  dealer.  There  are 
always  two  prices  for  an  article — the  one  you  pay 
for  it,  and  the  one  you  sell  it  for.  No  doubt  the 
Government  treats  the  man  as  well,  if  not  better, 
than  the  dealer  would. 

ii 


158      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

This  jewellery  is  wonderfully  beautiful.  Doris 
priced  a  pair  of  earrings  wrought  in  delicate  gold 
tracery  and  threaded  with  fine  seed  pearls;  some 
chips  of  rubies  and  emeralds  formed  a  charming 
design  in  the  centre.  The  pair  were  £15,  nor  would 
the  dealer  be  persuaded  to  break  the  pair.  Doris 
told  him  that  English  ladies  would  buy  them 
separately,  to  be  worn  as  pendants.  He  scoffed  at 
this  idea,  and  said  that  some  poor  Sicilian  woman 
would  save  up  the  money  and  purchase  the  pair 
for  her  daughter's  dowry. 

On  market  days  it  is  amusing  to  watch  the 
country-women  going  into  some  small  jeweller's 
shop  to  spend  their  hard-earned  money  on  some 
piece  of  solid  jewellery.  I  have  seen  earrings  in 
Sicily  quite  large  enough  for  Doris  to  wear  on  her 
wrists  as  bangles.  Gold  mixed  with  a  little  copper 
alloy  is  much  thought  of ;  the  Sicilian  does  not  care 
for  the  new  Calif ornian  yellow  gold.  But  the 
modern  jewellery  is  very  ugly.  Heavy  gold  neck- 
laces of  inferior  workmanship  and  poor  designs  have 
taken  the  place  of  the  delicate  gold  tracery  studded 
with  uncut  jewels  and  fringed  with  seed  pearls. 
These  old  ornaments  were  things  of  such  artistic 
beauty  that  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  the  people 
of  the  present  day  can  choose  in  preference  the 
vulgar  trinkets  one  sees  displayed  in  the  shop  win- 
dows on  market  days.  Why  has  their  taste  so 
degenerated  ? 

It  is  a  touching  sight,  this  purchasing  of  the 
wedding  jewellery.  I  have  more  than  once  seen  a 
little  family  conclave,  lasting  the  greater  part  of  the 
day,  taking  place  in  some  quiet  jeweller's  shop.  A 
table  is  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  the 
family — which  usually  consists  of  three  generations 
at  least — take  their  places  at  it  with  an  air  of  digni- 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      159 

fied  importance.  The  mother  of  the  bride  is  draped 
in  the  usual  fine  black  cashmere  shawl,  but  the 
glossy  head  of  her  pretty  daughter  is  of  course  hat- 
less  ;  her  parents  can  afford  to  buy  her  some  fine 
gold  trinkets  for  her  dowry,  but  she  has  not  risen 
to  the  social  position  of  wearing  a  hat.  A  bright 
scarf  of  many  colours  will  be  worn  over  her  hair  on 
the  journey  home. 

The  jeweller  does  not  expect  the  party  to  hurry 
over  their  purchase ;  what  has  taken  so  long  to  save 
must  not  be  spent  too  quickly.  The  whole  shop 
is  turned  out  for  them  to  examine,  although  the 
article  of  their  choice  has  been  decided  upon  at 
home  for  some  months  past.  Dear,  simple  people, 
no  one  is  left  out  upon  this  important  occasion. 
The  old  family  servant  is  there,  and  so  are  one  or 
two  good  neighbours.  I  can  imagine  the  bare  little 
Sicilian  home  made  bright  that  night  by  the 
presence  of  the  wonderful  necklace. 


Only  too  soon  the  hour  came  for  us  to  say  fare- 
well to  Castrogiovanni.  It  is  sad  to  say  good-bye 
to  a  beautiful  place  which  you  feel  almost  certain 
you  will  never  visit  again.  Something  in  your  life 
is  slipping  into  the  past,  and  one  more  memory  is 
being  added  to  the  sanctuary.  How  many  yester- 
days there  are,  although  to-morrow  never  comes ! 
The  disagreeable  moment  was  upon  us  of  paying 
the  landlady.  She  had  intentionally  kept  out  of 
our  sight  until  the  very  last  moment.  She  brought 
no  written  bill,  but  asked  u  eight  francs  fifty  " 
each  per  day. 

Doris  looked  crestfallen,  not  on  account  of  the 
eight  francs,  but  that  again  our  trust  in  these 
primitive  people  had  been  misplaced.  We  told  her 
that  she  had  refused  to  fix  her  price  per  day  when 


160      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

we  arrived,  and  as  we  had  eaten  her  food  and  slept 
in  her  comfortless  rooms,  we  had  no  choice  left  but 
to  pay  the  fee  she  demanded ;  but  that  five  francs 
would  have  rewarded  her  liberally.  She  became 
aggressive,  and  whined  for  even  more  than  eight 
francs.  We  must  pay  extra  for  the  scrap  of  bread 
and  cheese  she  had  given  us  to  eat  on  our  journey. 
We  were  quite  determined  that  we  should  not  pay 
one  cent  more  than  the  eight-and-a-half  francs,  and 
when  she  found  that  she  could  get  nothing  more 
out  of  us,  she  bowed  and  smiled  and  joined  in  the 
chorus  ojf  good  wishes  for  our  journey.  We  might 
have  been  her  welcome  guests  instead  of  her  over- 
charged customers.  We  were  pleased  to  learn  from 
the  coachman  that  this  woman  was  not  a  Sicilian, 
but  a  North  Italian.  He  had  apparently  quite  for- 
gotten his  own  overcharge  of  the  day  before,  for  he 
explained  that  the  North  Italians  are  the  Jews  of 
Sicily. 

"  They  despise  the  South,"  he  said,  "  and  laugh 
at  our  poverty ;  but  they  come  here,  nevertheless, 
and  take  the  food  out  of  our  mouths.  That  woman 
married  the  old  man  who  showed  you  over  the 
monastery  when  you  arrived  yesterday,  for  his 
money,  and,  mio  Dio !  what  a  life  she  leads  him. 
But  an  old  man  is  a  fool  who  marries  a  young 
woman.  Is  that  not  so,  signore?  He  deserves  all 
he  gets." 

When  we  laughingly  reminded  him  of  his  own 
attempt  to  cheat  us  the  day  before,  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  At  least  I  was  not  rude,  signore,"  he  said; 
"  and  we  must  all  try  and  make  what  money  we 
can.  He  that  is  afraid  of  the  devil  does  not  grow 
rich." 

The  day  being  warmer,  he  had  thrown  off  his 
dark  blue  cloak,  which  seemed  to  hang  on  the  outer 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       161 

rim  of  his  shoulders  as  if  it  were  gummed  there,  as 
he  strode  down  the  mountain  at  a  swinging  pace. 
The  horses  had  to  go  cautiously,  for  the  hard  frost 
of  the  night  before  had  made  travelling  dangerous. 
We  had,  therefore,  a  fine  opportunity  of  admiring 
his  magnificent  physique.  Every  nerve  in  his  body 
seemed  alert,  and  his  figure  was  beautifully  pro- 
portioned. He  conveyed  an  impression  of  manli- 
ness and  courage,  which  are  not  the  attributes  you 
would  apply  to  the  elegant  loungers  who  decorate 
so  picturesquely  the  cities  in  the  plains. 

As  we  were  steaming  out  of  the  station  rather  a 
touching  thing  happened.  A  young  soldier,  who 
had  his  entire  kit  with  him  and  was  apparently 
going  to  join  his  regiment  in  some  distant  part  of 
the  island,  was  reading  the  Giorndle.  Doris  had, 
I  fancy,  cast  longing  eyes  at  the  paper  for  some 
news  of  the  war.  The  young  fellow  looked  up  and 
caught  the  longing.  He  saluted  gracefully  and 
very  diffidently  offered  her  the  paper. 

-  It  contains  good  news  of  your  war,"  he  said. 
"  Please  keep  it  to  read  on  your  journey."  He 
was  a  North-countryman  from  Bologna,  and  was 
greatly  interested  in  South  Africa.  He  was 
entirely  in  sympathy  with  the  English.  Of  course 
we  had  to  bear  in  rnind  that  nothing  succeeds  like 
success.  I  wondered  if  six  weeks  ago  he  would 
have  looked  at  it  from  the  same  point  of  view. 
However,  the  spirit  of  kindliness  which  prompted 
the  action  was  not  lost  upon  Doris,  and  I  think  the 
young  man  was  well  repaid,  for  she  has  a  way  of 
smiling  her  thanks  which  nothing  in  uniform  can 
resist,  especially  when  the  heart  that  beats  below  it 
is  Italian. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  in  the  centre  of  Castro- 
giovanni,  which  is  the  centre  of  Sicily  and  was  the 
centre  of  the  ancient  worship  of  the  Corn  Goddess, 


162      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

there  is  to-day  a  famous  vineyard,  which,  as  far  as 
we  could  gather  from  Freeman,  is  the  site  of  the 
renowned  Temple  of  Proserpine.  The  site  of  the 
temple  of  her  mother  Ceres  (for  want  of  better 
evidence,  as  Freeman  says)  is  accepted  to  be  the  big 
white  rock  which  rises  sheer  from  the  plains  outside 
the  town  beyond  the  Castle  of  Manfred.  "  From 
such  a  point  Demeter  (Ceres)  could  indeed  look 
forth  over  her  Island,  and  her  Island  could  look  up 
to  its  goddess.  In  the  absence  of  all  direct  evi- 
dence, we  may  provisionally  accept  this  site  as  that 
of  the  holiest  place  of  pagan  Sicily." 

Speaking  of  Ceres  and  her  child  reminds  me  that 
in  the  small  municipal  museum  spoken  of,  there  was 
an  interesting  example  of  the  tact  and  adaptability 
shown  by  the  early  Christians.  There  is  an  antique 
statue  of  the  pagan  mother  and  her  child,  Ceres  with 
the  infant  Proserpine  in  her  arms.  The  Christians, 
not  wishing  to  upset  local  customs  too  quickly,  used 
the  same  statue  for  Mary  and  the  child  Christ. 
There  was  both  common-sense  and  economy  in  this 
simple  transformation.  The  ancients  no  doubt  had 
inherited  from  many,  many  generations  a  reverence 
and  devotion  for  this  statue.  It  had  been  made 
sacred  by  the  prayers  of  thousands,  and  therefore 
what  had  served  as  the  emblem  of  the  holiest  of 
pagan  deities  was  wisely  utilised  to  represent  the 
mother  and  infant-founder  of  the  new  religion. 
This  adaptation  of  pagan  customs  and  pagan 
belongings  enters  into  everything.  The  pagan 
festivals  became  the  Christian  saint-days ;  the  pagan 
temples  were  used  as  Christian  churches.  It  even 
went  so  far  in  Castrogiovanni  that,  to  appease  the 
people — because,  no  doubt  through  the  worship  of 
the  old  religion  being  thrown  aside,  the  importance 
of    Enna    was    considerably    lessened — the    local 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      163 

leaders  of  the  new  religion  invented  the  astounding 
theory  that  the  Immaculate  Conception  of  Our 
Lady  took  place  in  Enna.  Visitors  are  shown  a 
curious  little  stove  in  an  ancient  room  which  Mary 
is  said  to  have  inhabited.  They  even  go  so  far  as  to 
say  that  Mary  was  engaged  in  cooking  at  this  very 
stove  when  the  announcing  angel  appeared  to  her. 
In  robbing  Enna  of  the  worship  of  the  pagan 
mother  it  seemed  only  just  to  make  the  handsomest 
compensation  possible. 

Freeman  says  :  "  There  is  no  spot  of  an  historic 
fame  so  ancient  and  so  abiding  as  Enna  which  kept 
so  few  memorials  of  its  earlier  history.  .  .  .  Here 
and  there  we  mark  a  wheel-track  or  a  cutting  in 
the  rock,  but  it  is  disappointing  that  in  a  place  so 
full  of  memories,  Sikel,  Greek,  Roman,  Saracen, 
and  Norman,  we  can  find  nothing,  no  wall  or  temple 
or  church  or  palace,  older  than  the  kings  of  the 
house  of  Aragon." 

This  of  course  to  classical  scholars  must  be  a 
grievous  fault  in  Castrogiovanni,  but  with  Doris 
and  myself  it  would  be  affectation  to  pretend  that 
we  felt  very  deeply  upon  the  subject.  The  Aragon 
memories  are  good  enough  for  us,  Doris  says ;  and 
the  Castrogiovanni  of  to-day  is  so  picturesque  and 
romantic  that  we  can  console  ourselves  for  the  loss 
of  Epoca  Greca.  It  is  rather  a  relief  to  think  that 
we  have  not  seen  one  ancient  tomb  of  a  noble  family 
in  Castrogiovanni. 

Doris  was  gaily  chattering  to  our  young  student 
guides  as  they  were  toiling  up  to  the  vineyard,  when 
two  brown-frocked  monks  scuttled  down  the  hill 
with  upraised  hands.  They  spoke  so  rapidly  and 
so  urgently  that  both  the  need  and  meaning  of  their 
eloquence  was  lost  upon  us.  With  crestfallen  faces 
and  polite  apologies  for  the  conduct  of  the  monks, 


164      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

the  boys  told  Doris  that  she  was  on  forbidden 
ground.  No  woman — not  even  Queen  Margherita 
herself — was  permitted  to  visit  this  vineyard  or 
monastery. 

"  Then  ask  them  why  they  have  dared  to  plant 
their  vineyard  on  one  of  the  most  sacred  spots  in 
pagan  Sicily  ?  Why  may  a  woman  not  visit  the 
ground  '  famous  among  the  sanctuaries  of  the 
earth,'  when  it  was  a  woman  who  gave  us  her  Son 
for  the  redemption  of  mankind?" 

The  monks  gazed  at  her. 

"  Tell  them  to  go  away,"  she  continued,  "  and 
they  are  not  to  look  at  me.  If  it  is  wrong  for  a 
woman  to  walk  in  their  beautiful  vineyard  it  is 
wrong  for  them  to  stare  at  one  just  outside  the 
gate." 

Of  course  I  refused  to  enter.  I  did  not  feel 
inclined  to  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket  to  purchase 
a  bottle  pf  wine,  which  would  be  expected  of  me, 
when  Doris  was  refused  admittance. 

Doris  had  progressed  so  far  in  her  acquaintance 
with  the  students  of  the  university  of  Castro- 
giovanni  that  she  had  promised  to  send  them  a 
letter  from  Girgenti  as  a  souvenir. 

"  They  can't  read  English  and  I  can't  write 
Italian ;  my  grammar  is  too  shaky.  I  have  learnt 
to  do  half  my  speaking  with  my  hands  and  eyes, 
and  you  can't  put  that  down  on  paper;  but  it 
doesn't  matter  in  the  least.  They  can  imagine  I 
have  written  just  what  they  would  like  me  to  feel. 
What  dear  lads  they  are !  One  of  them  asked  me 
if  I  liked  poetry.  He  at  once  began  reciting  what 
I  fancied  might  be  a  quotation  from  Dante  which 
he  had  learnt  at  school.  The  other  three  boys 
clapped  their  hands,  and  told  me  that  it  was  his  own 
composition.     No  doubt  it  was  rubbish,  but  even 


H 


C3 

v 

5- 
E 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       165 

Italian  prose  sounds  like  poetry,  and  the  boy  had  a 
charming  voice.  Can  you  imagine  an  English 
schoolboy  striking  an  attitude  on  a  rock  and  burst- 
ing into  poetry?" 

It  was  evidently  Doris  who  had  inspired  his 
muse,  for  the  poem  was  only  composed  the  night 
before. 

As  there  are  no  women  of  even  the  humblest 
order  to  be  seen  in  the  streets  of  Castrogiovanni, 
and  these  boys  had  never  been  in  any  other  city, 
you  can  imagine  how  their  young  hearts  were  fired 
by  the  pretty  English  girl,  who  walked  and  smiled 
and  talked  to  them  in  a  way  which  the  girls  of  their 
country  do  not  understand.  How  doubly  cold  and 
cheerless  their  university  would  be  when  the 
wonderful  lady  had  gone !  Their  hearts  had  been 
surprised  and  stolen  in  one  sunlit  ajfternoon  and  a 
gay  morning  of  blue  skies  and  mountain  heights, 
but  all  the  years  of  a  long  life  will  not  efface  the 
vivid  impressions  of  youth.  You  may  be  quite  sure 
that  in  the  days  to  come,  when  these  bright-eyed 
boys  are  taking  their  places  with  the  patriarchs  of 
the  grey  old  wind-blown  city,  in  the  memory  of  each 
of  them  there  will  be  a  green  spot  for  the  English 
girl  with  cheeks  like  their  almond  blossom. 

When  the  bellisssima  signorina  was  mounted  high 
on  the  top  of  the  Regie  Poste,  and  the  horses  were 
ringing  an  impatient  peal  with  their  fine  necklaces 
of  bells,  four  boys'  hearts  were  very  heavy,  and 
eight  dark  eyes  were  full  of  sentiment  and  longing. 

Their  little  souvenir  at  parting  was  a  pretty  collec- 
tion of  the  wild-flowers  of  Castrogiovanni,  exqui- 
sitely pressed  and  mounted  on  large  sheets  of  exer- 
cise paper.  They  were  flowers  they  had  gathered  for 
their  botany  lectures  at  the  seminary.  These  little 
attentions,  which  are  very  usual  in  Sicily,  have  en- 
deared the  people  very  much  to  us. 


166      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

I  hope  I  do  not  gush  to  you  over  Sicily,  and  I 
am  glad  that  my  journal  helps  to  beguile  the  weari- 
ness of  your  enforced  idleness.  You  should  come 
to  Sicily  to  learn  how  to  do  nothing  on  no  income. 
Here  idleness  becomes  a  dignified  profession. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 


Girgenti,  Sicily, 

March,   1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

Girgenti,  the  ancient  Acragas,  is  marvel- 
lous :  it  soars  above  description.  From  our  terrace 
of  this  most  pleasing  hotel,  which  is  the  strangest 
mixture  of  electric  light  and  mediaeval  darkness,  we 
look  down  upon  a  scene  which  suddenly  brings  you 
to  your  level.  But  to  give  you  even  the  faintest 
idea  of  the  view  I  have  before  me  at  this  moment, 
I  must  tell  you  that  Girgenti,  the  city,  is  built  upon 
a  hill;  but,  speaking  broadly,  the  Girgenti  which 
visitors  come  to  see  consists  of  the  Greek  temples 
which  he  down  on  the  plain.  Our  hotel  is  up  in 
the  city,  which  has  adapted  its  outlines  to  the 
natural  formation  of  a  long  line  of  rock  which  runs 
along  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Our  hotel  is  almost  the 
last  house  on  the  outermost  rim  of  the  city,  so  that 
nothing  interrupts  our  view  of  the  wide,  fertile 
plain  which  runs  down  to  the  sea — a  plain  literally 
flowing  with  wine  and  oil,  although  the  vegetation 
which  shows  up  most  impressively  here,  and  which 
casts  a  veil  of  misty  blue  over  the  landscape,  con- 
sists of  the  inevitable  artichokes  and  the  prickly- 
pears. 

On  well-chosen  sites  of  considerable  elevation, 
midway  between  the  sea  and  the  line  of  mountains, 
lie  the  famous  temples  of  Girgenti. 

Strangers  should  time  their  arrival  in  Girgenti 

so  that  their  eyes  may  first  fall  upon  these  eternal 

167 


168      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

monuments  when  they  are  bathed  in  the  warmth  of 
the  setting  sun.  The  sun  seems  to  rejoice  in  the 
part  it  is  called  upon  to  play  in  enhancing  the 
beauty  of  these  proofs  of  Sicily's  pagan  greatness. 

It  would  have  been  rude  if  it  had  set  behind  the 
great  city  rock  and  left  the  temples  out  in  the  cold. 
As  Doris  says,  "  All  you  can  do  is  to  conquer  tears 
and  bow  your  head  in  meek  humility  when  you 
first  see  these  temples.  There  is  nothing  else  to 
be  done."  There  are  some  kinds  of  architectural 
scenery  which  you  can  speak  about  and  rave  over, 
but  these  mighty  monarchs  of  the  plain  command 
the  respect  of  silence. 

Even  a  fool's  tongue  could  not  wag  when  the 
light  which  brings  long  shadows  falls  upon  the 
place2  and  pours  its  evening  blesssing  upon  the 
temples.  These  temples  are  the  saddest  things  I 
have  ever  seen.  Alone  in  their  strength,  they  have 
outlived  the  history  of  their  time.  They  represent 
a  religion  of  which  we  know  nothing  and  have  but 
the  merest  suppositions.  The  innumerable  images 
and  Tamps  and  votive  offerings  found  in  their  pre- 
cincts do  not  help  us.  There  they  stand — these 
sanctuaries  of  the  pagan  world — dominating  the 
plain  in  their  simple  greatness,  forgotten  by  Time, 
the  ravager,  like  some  lonely  souls  passed  over  in 
the  day  o(f  judgment.  And  yet  in  their  day  they 
were  the  focus  in  the  life  of  a  people — a  people  who 
were  counted  amongst  the  great,  a  people  who  were 
busy  colonising  the  desirable  Mediterranean  shores. 

One  cannot  help  being  thankful  that  there  are 

cathedral   archives  to   record  the   history  of  the 

Christian   belief,    so   that   when   another   twenty 

centuries    have    effected    their    ruthless    changes, 

Canterbury  will  not  be  a  monument  to  an  unknown 

religion. 

****** 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      169 

We  are  the  only  strangers  in  this  wonderful  hotel, 
and  our  host  (the  maitre  d'hdtel)  is  a  Sicilian  edition 
of  Corney  Grain.  He  walks  with  the  same  elephan- 
tine gentleness,  and  besides  having  a  unique  re- 
semblance in  figure  and  features,  he  has  something 
of  the  late  lamented's  grace  of  wit.  It  would  be 
useless  to  attempt  to  describe  this  hotel,  for  sur- 
prises greet  you  at  every  turn.  Sufficient  that  it 
gives  you  a  happy  impression  of  white-tiled  terraces, 
gaily  adorned  with  green  pots  full  of  red  carnations 
in  a  riot  of  bloom,  tangles  of  cacti  and  Fichi 
d' India,  and  has  elevations  of  every  conceivable 
height  and  construction.  When  a  Sicilian  requires 
another  room  or  a  terrace,  he  builds  it  on.  His 
native  ingenuity  always  defies  impossibility,  and 
never  a  spot  is  wasted  where  a  flower  or  a  green 
thing  will  flourish. 

On  our  arrival,  after  introducing  us  to  his  wife, 
who,  poor  creature,  is  one  of  those  yellow  objects 
devastated  by  fever  which  one  sometimes  sees  in 
Sicily,  our  host  escorted  us  to  the  terrace  which 
overlooks  the  plains.  He  is  a  giant  of  few  words, 
and  as  we  followed  him  up  the  tiled  staircase,  cool 
and  dark,  and  across  the  light,  white  halls,  brightly 
tiled,  we  felt  that  we  had  dropped  down  upon  some- 
thing good.  After  Castrogiovanni  it  seems  luxur- 
ious. Without  a  word  spoken  we  seemed  to 
journey  on  through  an  endless  succession  of  dark 
passages  and  Spanish  tiled  halls,  when  quite  sud- 
denly he  opened  a  door  and  bowed  Doris  out  on  to 
the  sunny  terrace.  I  watched  his  pleased  face  while 
the  girl  took  in  her  first  impression  of  the  view. 

Doris  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  parapet  of  highly 
glazed  china  tiles,  and  shaded  her  eyes  from  the 
evening  sun. 

"  I  am  finding  the  temples,"  she  said ;  "  I  know 
they  are  down  on  the  plain." 


170      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Our  gentle  giant  did  not  speak,  but  with  a  soft 
white  hand  he  pointed  out  their  situation  with  his 
eyes  still  fixed  on  the  girl's  eloquent  face.  After  a 
moment's  looking,  she  raised  her  elbows  from  the 
white  tiles,  and  her  hands  dropped  at  her  side. 
She  had  seen  them !  We  stood  in  devout  silence. 
A  tired  sigh  came  from  full  heart  to  lips.  She  left 
us  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  terrace.  It  was  as 
if  some  gorgeous  music,  which  had  held  her  spell- 
bound and  as  physically  taut  as  the  strings  of  a 
fiddle,  had  suddenly  ceased. 

Our  host  gave  an  approving  smile  of  sympathy. 
I  could  see  he  was  pleased,  and  that  it  was  here  as 
it  is  everywhere, — Love  me,  love  my  Sicily.  Scorn 
my  Sicily,  and  you  may  sleep  in  north  rooms  and 
eat  poor  food  for  all  I  care. 

"  The  signorina  is  affected,"  he  said.  "  She  is 
very  sensitive.     The  English  are  not  often  so." 

I  nodded  my  head. 

M  I  often  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  signor  Inglese 
travels  so  far  from  the  country  which  is  the  best 
in  the  world?" 

I  smiled  at  his  implied  sarcasm. 

M  For  something  to  do,"  I  said ;  "  and  in  search 
of  sunshine." 

He  laughed.  "  Gia,  gia.  We  are  all  sun- 
worshippers  whatever  our  creed  may  be ;  that  is  the 
touch  of  nature  which  makes  us  all  kin.  Is  not 
that  so?  The  English  are  so  powerful  that  they 
take  whatever  they  wish,  but  they  cannot  rob  Italy 
of  her  sunshine.  It  is  like  the  rich  man  who  can 
buy  everything  but  love,  and  love  is  the  salt  of 
life.  A  country  without  sunshine  requires  all  its 
riches."  And  then  he  went  on  to  point  out  the 
different  temples  by  their  names. 

The  Temple  of  Juno  Lacinia,  the  Temple  of 
Concord,  the  Temple  of  Hercules,  the  Temple  of 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      171 

Jupiter,  the  Temple  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  these  are 
the  most  important  of  the  group  of  nine,  and  fine- 
sounding  names  they  were  when  they  rolled  from 
the  lips  of  Orestes  de'  Angelis.  The  ancient  Porto 
Empedocle,  which  carried  on  such  a  wealthy  trade 
with  Carthage  when  the  inhabitants  of  Acragas 
numbered  eight  hundred  thousand  (including 
slaves),  lies  stretched  out  in  the  blue  sea.  The  boats 
swaying  in  the  harbour,  he  explained,  were  now 
almost  entirely  confined  to  the  sulphur  trade.  One- 
sixth  of  the  Sicilian  sulphur  is  exported  from  this 
little  port. 

"  Signor  de'  Angelis,"  Doris  said  suddenly, 
"  will  you  order  a  carriage  now,  at  this  very 
moment,  before  the  sun  goes  away?  for  we  must 
go  to  the  temples.  I  want  to  sit  in  one  this  very 
evening.     They  can  never  be  so  beautiful  again." 

14  While  you  drink  your  coffee,  signorina,  on  the 
terrace,  I  will  do  what  you  command." 

The  coffee  appeared,  and  also  some  tangerine 
oranges,  half-hidden  in  their  dark  green  leaves.  I 
think  you  have  to  go  to  Sicily  to  see  these  rich- 
coloured  oranges.  I  have  never  found  them  else- 
where. 

"  We  have  not  inspected  our  rooms  yet,"  I  said, 
"  or  made  any  arrangements." 

11  I  don't  care  the  least  bit  where  I  sleep.  I  feel 
as  if  to  sleep  here  would  be  a  waste  of  time,  a  want 
of  proper  appreciation.  Let  us  forget  all  the  little 
bothers  of  travelling  and  go  to  the  temples.  You 
can  order  your  rooms  any  time,  but  you  can't  order 
that  light." 

Once  in  the  carriage  we  dashed  with  a  fine  reck- 
lessness through  the  long  c6rso9  sending  the  hordes 
of  idle  loungers  flying  hither  and  thither.  If  a 
coachman  in  Sicily  waited  for  the  populace  to  move 
out  of  the  horses'  way,  you  would  never  reach  your 


172      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

destination.  You  have  to  run  over  them  to  make 
them  move.  The  road  to  the  temple  skirts  the  foot 
of  the  Rock  of  Athene,  where  the  temple  of  Athene 
is  supposed  to  have  stood,  and  passes  the  fashionable 
Hotel  des  Temples,  and  later  the  dilapidated  but 
picturesque  Convent  of  St.  Nicola. 

Girgenti  and  its  surroundings  are  red — as  red  as 
Devonshire ;  Syracuse  and  its  neighbourhood  were 
dazzlingly  white,  and  Castrogiovanni  was  grey.  In 
Girgenti  rich  travertine  walls  take  the  place  of  the 
white  plastered  walls  so  general  in  Syracuse.  On 
this  long  road  to  the  temples  these  orange-walls 
have  undoubtedly  been  built  mainly  from  blocks 
stolen  from  the  ruined  temples.  On  this  road  we 
met  our  first  flock  of  Girgenti  goats,  which  are  the 
aristocracy  of  their  race  in  Sicily,  and  do  a  great 
deal  to  impress  upon  you  the  magnificence  of  the 
animal  at  its  best. 

They  are  enormous  beasts  with  long  and  very  fine 
snow-white  hair;  their  immense  horns  stand  out 
from  their  heads  like  the  antlers  of  a  stag.  Under 
the  shade  of  an  ancient  prickly-pear,  which  had 
grown  so  strong  that  its  trunk  was  as  thick  and  as 
straight  as  a  tree,  a  sunburnt  old  man  was  busily 
feeding  half  a  dozen  of  these  fine  goats.  Their 
eager,  pert  heads  seemed  almost  human  in  their 
intelligence  as  they  waited  for  him  to  cut  a  slice  off 
a  succulent  leaf  of  the  prickly-pear  which  he  held 
in  his  hand.  Before  the  slice  had  left  the  pocket- 
knife  or  had  been  quite  severed  from  the  leaf,  a 
sharp  mouth  seized  it  and  a  blunt  nose  was  poked 
into  the  air ;  then  another  and  another  mouth  was 
fed  in  just  the  same  manner.  The  man  was  a 
beautiful  old  country  fellow,  dressed  in  the  light- 
blue  cotton  knee-breeches  and  loose  coat,  the 
costume  of  a  generation  which  is  fast  dying  out. 

The  group  made  a  charming  picture.     Girgenti 


The  Temple  of  Castor  and   Pollux   at   Girgenti." 

[To  face  p.    172. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      178 

is  full  of  colour.  The  little  black-and-white  goats 
of  Syracuse  are  very  insignificant  animals  compared 
with  these  white  ones. 

Here,  as  everywhere,  we  have  goats  and  prickly- 
pears.  The  tombs,  I  am  quite  sure,  we  are  coming 
to. 

The  prickly-pears  are  the  camels  of  Sicily.  They 
carry  water  during  the  drought  for  the  beasts  in 
their  fleshy  leaves,  and  absorb  moisture  out  of  the 
barren  soil.  The  human  boy  and  foolish  lovers  do 
not  carve  their  names  or  cut  entwined  hearts  on  the 
bark  of  trees  in  Sicily,  but  on  the  broad  plate- 
shaped  leaves  of  the  prickly-pear.  I  have  seen 
poems  and  amusing  mottoes  cut  on  these  ubiquitous 
plants,  and  not  infrequently  caricatures  of  local 
celebrities  are  cleverly  scratched  on  them. 

Here  in  Girgenti  there  are  fields  and  mountain- 
sides covered  with  this  weird  plant.  The  prickly- 
pear  is  green-blue,  while  the  aloe  is  blue-green,  and 
yet  neither  of  them  is  really  green  at  all  when  it 
takes  its  place  beside  the  true  spring-green  of  the 
almond-trees  or  the  tender  sprouting  grain,  the 
green  which  England  knows  and  loves.  The  charm 
of  the  vegetation  in  the  south  is,  I  think,  due  to  the 
mixtures  of  these  different  greens.  Here  the 
asphodels  are  still  in  bloom.  Syracuse  is  much 
earlier  in  the  arrival  of  her  seasons. 

When  we  reached  the  temples  they  were  still 
warm  with  the  sun.  They  are  built  of  a  shell-stone 
or  travertine,  which  never  could  have  withstood  the 
ravages  of  the  sirocco  if  they  had  not  been  originally 
covered  with  an  imperishable  white  cement,  which 
can  be  seen  to  this  day  in  parts. 

If  these  temples  had  been  built  of  marble  or  of 
any  valuable  stone,  it  is  doubtful  if  they  would  have 
withstood  the  ravages  of  Hannibal,  the  son  of  Gisco, 
who  plundered  the  city  in  406  and  shipped  off  its 

12 


174      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

works  of  art  to  Carthage.  Even  the  temples  were 
burnt.     Poor  Juno  still  carries  her  scars. 

Doris  refuses  to  picture  them  as  they  were  in 
their  original  state,  cemented  white  to  represent 
marble  and  decorated  in  bright  colours.  They  are 
so  much  more  beautiful  now.  It  was  the  desire  of 
the  Greeks,  no  doubt,  to  reproduce  in  their  colonies 
the  white  marble  temples  of  their  beloved  Athens 
which  led  them  into  this  grievous  error  of  imitation. 

Out  of  the  nine  temples,  two  remain  almost  com- 
plete— the  Temple  of  Juno  Lacinia,  and  the  Tem- 
ple of  Concord,  which  is  one  of  the  most  perfect 
ancient  temples  in  existence.  Its  preservation  may 
be  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was  used  as  a 
Christian  church  throughout  the  Middle  Ages. 
In  the  evening,  when  the  hasty  tourists  have  fled, 
and  the  Americans  are  dressing  for  their  table 
d'hote  at  the  Hotel  des  Temples,  it  is  sublime  to  sit 
almost  hidden  from  sight  in  a  sweet-scented  sea  of 
asphodels  and  gaze  on  these  wonderful  works  of 
mankind.  As  you  look,  you  grow  amazed  that 
human  hands,  and  not  divine,  raised  them.  The 
huge  fallen  blocks  impress  you  almost  as  much  as 
the  exquisite  proportion  and  symmetry  of  the 
buildings.  The  scene  envelops  you.  You  find 
your  mind  battling  to  find  out  something  of  their 
past,  battling  to  reconstruct  them ;  your  imagina- 
tion, filled  with  classically  draped  figures,  going 
through  a  form  of  ceremony,  which  is  the  stone  wall 
against  which  your  brain  kicks,  and  it  falls  back  to 
take  refuge  in  the  eye-worship  of  the  present. 

Why,  you  ask  yourself,  are  all  these  ghosts  of  the 
past  here  to-day?  They  are  little  in  keeping  with 
the  present  city  of  Girgenti.  Their  simplicity  and 
purity  of  style  have  served  nothing  as  an  example  to 
the  architects  who  built  the  cathedral. 

The  town,  however,  I  must  leave  for  another 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      175 

time.     To-night  we  have  eyes  only  for  the  temples 
on  the  plains. 

Have  I  told  you  that  I  have  had  news  of  Alice's 
boy  ?  I  am  to  expect  a  visit  from  him  in  Palermo. 
His  ship  is  now  at  Malta.  He  has  six  months' 
leave,  and  speaks  in  his  letter  as  if  he  intended 
spending  the  first  three  months  in  Sicily  and 
Southern  Italy.  I  cannot  believe  that  Alice's  boy 
is  old  enough  to  be  writing  in  this  manner.  It 
seems  impossible,  when  one  looks  back  upon  the 
pleasure  and  pain  of  those  days,  that  the  years  have 
slipped  by  unnoticed  so  easily. 

In  youth  we  imagine  each  year  and  day  will  drag 
on  in  longing  and  loneliness.  If  there  is  anything 
of  his  mother  in  the  lad,  you  may  be  sure,  for  old 
memories'  sake,  he  will  be  welcome. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


GlRGENTI, 

March,   1900. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

We  are  longing  for  English  letters  and 
London  newspapers.  It  seems  months  since  we 
left  Syracuse.  Our  journey  here  took  us  through 
the  heart  of  the  sulphur-mining  country,  the  Black 
country  of  Sicily,  so  to  speak,  although  it  is  in 
reality  yellow.  As  the  train  laboured  through  the 
mountains,  the  very  air  was  thick  with  sulphur 
fumes,  and  for  many  miles  the  wild  beauty  of  the 
scenery  was  ruined  by  the  ever-present  sulphur 
mines.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  how  these 
mines  are  worked,  but  their  appearance  is  like  the 
throwing  up  of  gigantic  mole-hills  discoloured  with 
sulphur.  Everywhere  on  the  winding  goat-tracks 
through  the  mountainous  mining  country,  you  can 
see  pack-trains  of  mules  laden  with  gigantic  blocks 
of  yellow-green  sulphur.  Two  blocks  of,  I  should 
say,  50  lbs.  each  go  to  a  mule. 

The  railway  stations  on  the  line  are  very  numer- 
ous and  close  together,  and  it  was  always  the  same 
thing — a  great  deal  of  shunting  and  waste  of  time 
for  us,  spent  in  the  hitching  on  or  off  of  waggons 
full  of  sulphur.  All  the  stations  were  busy  with 
sulphur-coloured  people  taking  the  blocks  from  the 
mules  and  putting  them  into  the  waggons.  When 
the  sulphur  arrives  at  Girgenti  it  is  taken  straight 
down  by  a  special  railway  to  Porto  Empedocle. 
This  busy,  mining  Sicily  is  a  very  ugly  one,  I  must 

admit ;  and  the  people  connected  with  it,  the  men, 

176 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      177 

women,  and  even  the  children,  are  as  lawless  and 
depraved  a  class  of  people  as  miners  everywhere 
are.  Yet  the  prosperity  of  Sicily  depends  on  her 
sulphur.  When  sulphur  is  up,  Sicily  is  peaceful, 
and  socialism  is  inactive;  when  sulphur  is  down, 
Sicily  is  one  vast  home  of  paupers,  and  the  terror 
of  brigandage  reigns. 

It  has  come  as  an  unpleasant  shock  in  our  travels 
through  this  idle  island,  this  busy  region  of  brim- 
stone and  sulphur.  And  yet  to  fully  understand 
Girgenti  and  the  undercurrent  of  discontent  and 
the  revolutionary  spirit  of  the  people,  you  must 
first  grasp  the  magnitude  of  the  sulphur  trade,  and 
see  this  extraordinary  country  where  the  daily  life 
of  the  people  is  a  thing  undreamt  ojf  in  its  hideous- 
ness. 

The  wealth,  and  the  poverty,  and  the  horrible 
degradation  of  Girgenti  are  all  the  outcome  of 
sulphur.  The  busy  shipping,  down  at  the  little 
port  in  the  blue  African  sea,  is,  as  I  told  you,  totally 
confined  to  sulphur.  The  railway  which  takes  it 
down  from  the  height  of  the  city-on-the-hills  to  the 
sea-level — as  fine  a  piece  of  engineering  as  there  is 
of  the  kind — was  constructed  out  of  the  profits  of 
sulphur.  The  handsome  corso,  with  its  excellent 
shops  and  fine  public  buildings,  is  the  outcome  of 
sulphur ;  so,  too,  are  the  filthy  depravity  and  bestial 
types  of  the  men  and  women  living  in  the  foul- 
smelling  streets  behind  the  corso. 

There  is  a  sense  of  evil  and  wickedness,  mingled 
with  the  poverty,  in  the  dark  streets  of  Girgenti 
which,  thank  God,  is  unusual  amongst  the  poor  of 
Sicily. 

Doris  could  not  walk  alone  through  even  the 
openest  part  of  this  wild  city,  whereas  in  Syracuse 
or  Castrogiovanni  she  would  have  been  as  safe  in 
the  darkest  corner  as  in  her  English  village. 


178      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Our  first  experience  of  Sicilian  drunkenness,  too, 
has  been  at  Girgenti.  Our  coachman  who  drove  us 
to  the  temples  on  the  night  of  our  arrival  was  just 
drunk  enough  to  be  unpleasantly  obstinate,  and  the 
noise  in  the  streets  here  at  night  sounds  more  like 
the  noise  one  hears  when  closing  hour  comes  in 
London  than  the  usual  midnight  talk  and  laughter 
in  a  Southern  city.  Sicily  never  goes  to  bed,  and 
if  you  want  to  see  the  streets  at  their  gayest,  put 
your  head  out  of  your  bedroom  window  some  night 
after  you  have  been  asleep  for  many  hours,  and  you 
will  see  the  nation  at  play.  I  believe  the  beggars 
sleep  when  they  have  nothing  to  eat,  but  the  shop- 
keepers, who  are  busy  in  their  shops  during  the 
daytime,  play  dominoes  or  cards  all  night  long,  and 
it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  no  Italian  or  Sicilian 
officer  requires  a  night-shirt.  His  bright  blue  cloak 
and  gleamings  of  scarlet  and  steel  decorate  the  pub- 
lic squares  and  streets  from  dawn  until  dawn. 
Doris  says  she  supposes  that  the  reason  why  Italians 
have  no  word  for  home  is  that  they  used  to  live  in 
their  palaces  and  now  live  in  their  streets.  No  one 
could  ever  call  a  palace  a  home,  were  it  ever  so 
palatial. 

Speaking  of  palaces  reminds  me  that  I  have  never 
told  you  anything  about  the  interior  of  this  hotel, 
which,  it  is  needless  to  say,  was  once  a  palace.  In 
days  gone  by  there  seems  to  have  been  literally  no 
merchant  class  in  Sicily;  a  man  either  lived  in  a 
palace  or  a  basso,  which  is  really  the  basement  of 
a  palace.  Our  gentle  giant  attends  to  our  wants 
himself  during  meals ;  he  keeps  a  waiter  to  run  his 
messages.  His  manner  is  a  subtle  mixture  of  the 
dignity  of  a  host  and  a  humble  anxiety  for  our 
comfort,  and  his  cooking  is  superb ;  even  the  beef 
and  mutton  have  here  redeemed  their  fallen  charac- 
ter.    The  decorations  of  the  rooms  are  a  ludicrous 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      179 

mixture  of  ancient  splendour  and  modern  trash; 
the  high  vaulted  roofs  in  the  original  palace  rooms 
are  handsomely  painted,  and  there  are  some  fine 
specimens  of  old  Italian  furniture  scattered  about 
the  place.  The  immense  sofas,  covered  in  Genoese 
gold-brocade,  seem  dwarfed  by  the  vastness  of  the 
rooms.  Contrasted  with  these  relics  of  bygone 
splendour  are  the  most  modern  and  rickety  of  ward- 
robes and  make-shift  washstands.  The  floors  are 
covered  with  old  Spanish  tiles  in  yellow  and  blue. 
As  many  as  thirty  tiles  go  to  form  one  design.  In 
the  new  rooms,  which  the  landlord  has  added  on  to 
the  palace  at  his  own  sweet  will,  the  walls  are 
roughly  distempered,  and  bold  shafts  of  flowers  and 
fruit  are  dashed  across  the  white  walls.  These 
shafts  of  colour  fly  out  from  the  cornice  and  dis- 
appear into  the  skirt-board.  They  are  not  the  most 
original  form  of  decoration  I  have  ever  seen,  but  the 
whole  effect  is  delightfully  Southern. 

Four  priests  dined  with  us  to-night,  and  although 
it  is  Lent  they  treated  themselves  well.  Doris  says 
that  Lent  is  the  only  time  when  men  are  willing  to 
own  that  they  are  over  sixty — Catholics  over  sixty 
and  under  sixteen  are  exempt  from  fasting  in  Lent ; 
so  are  all  school-teachers,  I  believe,  which  is  a  very 
wise  rule.  The  priests,  like  ourselves,  are  pilgrims 
in  Girgenti,  and  are  anticipating  their  first  visit  to 
the  temples  to-morrow  morning.  They  are  very 
clean  in  their  persons,  and  polished  men  of  the 
world  in  their  manners.  I  wonder  what  country 
produced  them. 

This  morning  we  paid  a  visit  to  the  cathedral. 
In  the  Middle  Ages  Girgenti  was  the  most  richly 
endowed  bishopric  in  Sicily,  but  there  is  little  to 
remind  you  of  the  fact  to-day  in  the  tawdry  modern 
building,  the  very  acme  of  bad  taste.  The  decora- 
tions of  the  interior  remind  one  of  a  box  covered 


180      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

with  shells,  such  as  you  see  for  sale  on  the  pier  at 
Brighton.  It  is  impossible  to  get  over  the  fact 
that  the  people  who  built  this  monument  of  vulgar- 
ity must  have  lived  all  their  lives  within  sight  of  the 
Greek  temples.  The  only  part  of  the  original 
building  which  remains  is  the  elegant  unfinished 
campanile  and  one  pillar  in  the  interior..  Every- 
thing is  squalor  and  disorder  in  Girgenti  when  once 
you  leave  the  fine  corso. 

On  the  wide  flight  of  steps  leading  up  to  the 
cathedral  front,  an  entire  household's  washing  was 
spread  out  to  dry;  some  splendid  coarse  linen 
sheets,  hand-spun  and  as  warm  as  blankets  in  tex- 
ture, were  actually  steaming  on  the  hot  red 
sandstone  steps.  This  washing  so  completely 
usurped  the  main  entrance  to  the  building  that  two 
priests,  who  were  scuttling  to  midday  service,  were 
compelled  to  go  round  to  the  side  doors.  In 
Girgenti  it  is  impossible  to  enjoy  a  quiet  moment. 
Sight-seeing  is  almost  dangerous,  for  the  people 
are  both  rough  and  rude.  If  a  stranger  appears  in 
their  streets  most  quietly  and  unnoticeably  dressed, 
the  human  boy  spots  him  at  once,  and  he  becomes 
a  laughing-stock  and  an  object  of  prey  to  the  whole 
neighbourhood.  Ugly  little  faces,  covered  with 
scars,  turn  their  evil  eyes  up  to  yours,  a  general 
whine  for  money  begins  and  increases  in  persistence 
as  the  string  of  followers  gathers  and  gathers.  No 
one  is  ashamed  to  beg  in  Girgenti.  Sometimes  I 
think  they  do  it  for  fun  and  to  annoy  the  stranger. 

An  old  woman,  whose  features  were  wasted  and 
distorted  with  disease,  was  actually  laid  out  on  a 
rough  chaff -mattress  in  the  narrow  dark  street  to 
beg.  As  her  bed  took  up  the  whole  width  of  the 
street,  we  had  to  retrace  our  steps ;  we  had  no  time 
to  risk  the  army  of  microbes  we  might  have  dis- 
turbed by  treading  on  that  mattress.    Her  daughter 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      181 

— a  fine-featured,  well-dressed  woman — followed  us 
with  the  endless  cry,  u  Fame,  signore,  fame,  molto 
fame,  piccola  moneta."  I  wonder  if  the  sulphur 
kings  of  Sicily  do  anything  for  Girgenti.  It  is 
certainly  a  disgrace  to  their  country,  a  blister  on 
the  side  of  the  island.  The  ordinary  tourist,  who 
spends  one  night  at  the  Hotel  des  Temples,  which 
is  more  than  a  mile  from  the  city,  never  sees  this 
degradation  and  poverty,  for  the  cathedral  in  the 
city  is  scarcely  worth  a  visit  in  a  country  where  there 
is  so  much  to  see,  although  it  contains  a  celebrated 
sarcophagus,  which  is  a  thing  of  rare  and  exquisite 
beauty,  but  not  unique  enough  to  tempt  the  ordin- 
ary sightseer  out  of  his  course.  For,  after  a  few 
months  spent  in  Sicily,  one  begins  to  class  sar- 
cophagi in  the  same  category  as  aqueducts  and 
tombs  of  noble  families.  The  only  other  object  of 
interest  in  the  town  itself  is  what  remains  of  the 
oldest  temple  of  Girgenti,  Jupiter  Polieus.  There 
are  six  columns  still  to  be  seen  under  the  foundation 
of  the  church  of  S.  Maria  dei  Greci. 

But  I  have  no  intention  of  spending  another  hour 
of  our  valuable  time  in  the  city  of  Girgenti.  You 
can  so  easily  turn  your  back  upon  all  that  is  evil  and 
hideous  by  walking  as  far  as  the  popular  Passeggi- 
ata,  which  is  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  town,  just 
under  the  Rupe  Atenea.  This  promenade  com- 
mands a  lovely  view.  We  saw  the  distant  island  of 
Pantellaria  an  hour  before  sunset  as  we  were  sitting 
there  listening  to  the  town  band.  Sicilians  live  for 
their  Passeggiata ;  it  is  the  one  event  of  excitement 
in  their  empty  day.  Girgenti  does  not  boast  of 
many  "  carriage  folk,"  so  we  had  a  near  view  of  the 
beauty  and  fashion  of  this  sulphur  city,  and  we 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  merchant,  or  mine- 
owner,  who  is  even  moderately  well  off,  does  not 
live  in  Girgenti.     It  is  strange  what  characters 


182      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

cities  have !  I  wonder  more  has  not  been  made  of 
the  subject  in  literature.  Girgenti  has  as  much 
individuality  as  any  "  cussed  vixen  "  in  fiction. 
If  you  were  a  blind  person,  and  had  been  suddenly 
transported  from  Castrogiovanni  to  Girgenti  the 
characteristics  of  the  city  would  affect  you  at  once. 
You  could  never  imagine  you  were  in  sea-bound 
Syracuse,  lovely  white  Syracuse,  or  wind-swept 
Castrogiovanni,  with  her  silent  streets  and  hurrying 
clouds.  And  yet  here  in  Girgenti  the  cloud  effects 
are  magnificent.  They  tear  and  scud  across  the 
sky,  casting  deep  shadows  on  the  endless  expanse  of 
sea,  which  reaches  as  far  from  right  to  left,  when 
you  are  facing  the  south,  as  the  eye  can  see.  There 
is  something  tragic  about  the  scenery  of  Girgenti, 
something  mysterious  in  the  effect  it  has  upon  one. 
"  You  would  always  stand  in  awe  of  its  beauty," 
Doris  says,  M  even  if  you  had  played  as  a  baby 
around  its  temples ;  it  is  not  a  place  to  love  and 
grow  fond  of.  Some  places,  like  some  people, 
command  respect,  while  others  beget  love."  Sicily 
is  all  gold  and  grey,  all  sunshine  and  shadow,  but  I 
think  the  shadows  rest  longest  on  Girgenti. 

We  wished  to  walk  to  the  temples  yesterday, 
having  had  not  too  pleasant  an  experience  with  our 
driver ;  and,  to  vary  the  route,  we  decided  to  follow 
the  ancient  Greek  road  which  leads  down  to  Porto 
Empedocle.  We  engaged  the  services  of  a  small 
boy  to  act  as  guide.  He  was  about  twelve  years  of 
age,  and  as  pretty  a  character  as  you  ever  saw ;  it 
was  his  extraordinary  appearance  which  first 
attracted  Doris.  Not  a  garment  he  wore  had 
originally  been  made  or  bought  to  fit  his  slender 
person.  The  boots  on  his  small,  well-shaped  feet, 
which  were  stockingless,  were  women's  boots,  so 
many  sizes  too  large  for  him  that  over  and  over 
again,  as  we  picked  our  way  through  the  ancient 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      183 

rock-strewn  street,  one  or  both  boots  would  be  left 
lodged  between  the  sharp  stones.  His  trousers  had 
literally  no  legs,  they  were  all  seat,  and  had  origin- 
ally been  wore  by  some  man  as  big  as  our  gentle 
giant  at  the  hotel;  the  upper  portions  reached 
almost  to  the  child's  ankles,  so  legs  were  not 
required.  A  coat  of  many  colours,  which  had  been 
made  smaller  round  the  tails  and  left  in  its  original 
baggy  state  at  the  shoulders,  was  set  off  by  a  glaring 
knitted  waistcoat,  which  came  down  almost  to  the 
knees.  The  cap,  the  faded  ghost  of  what  had  once 
been  fine  green  plush,  was  the  only  article  of  dress 
which,  in  a  manner,  fitted  this  grotesque  little 
human  ragbag.  The  boy's  natural  grace  of  limb 
and  Greek  cast  of  features  made  him  look  like  a 
Greek  mounteback  playing  at  being  a  man,  a  thing 
all  tatters  and  remnants,  but  graced  with  the  beauty 
of  the  South.  His  hair  had  faded  with  the  sun  from 
nut-brown  to  tawny  gold ;  the  long  ends  were  full 
of  colour.  But  it  was  the  eyes,  full  of  the  gravity 
of  Sicily,  and  the  eloquent  languor  of  his  race, 
which  gave  the  real  beauty  to  the  face. 

When  we  met  him,  his  arms  were  full  of  fresh 
dandelions,  which  he  told  us  he  was  taking  home  to 
his  mother  for  a  salad.  Sicilians  love  green  food, 
and  Providence  has  been  kind  in  supplying  them 
with  a  plentiful  variety  of  hedge  salads,  as  any  price, 
however  low,  would  be  more  than  they  could  afford 
to  pay  for  garden-grown  food.  This  says  a  good 
deal  for  their  poverty  :  a  landlady  once  told  me  that 
she  could  buy  enough  lettuces  to  serve  a  party  of 
thirty  for  twopence. 

We  offered  the  boy  twenty  cents  if  he  would  act 
as  our  guide  for  the  afternoon ;  he  was  delighted. 
Without  a  moment's  thought,  his  fine  salad  was 
stowed  inside  his  waistcoat ;  he  was  not  the  proud 


182      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

cities  have !  I  wonder  more  has  not  been  made  of 
the  subject  in  literature.  Girgenti  has  as  much 
individuality  as  any  "  cussed  vixen  "  in  fiction. 
If  you  were  a  blind  person,  and  had  been  suddenly 
transported  from  Castrogiovanni  to  Girgenti  the 
characteristics  of  the  city  would  affect  you  at  once. 
You  could  never  imagine  you  were  in  sea-bound 
Syracuse,  lovely  white  Syracuse,  or  wind-swept 
Castrogiovanni,  with  her  silent  streets  and  hurrying 
clouds.  And  yet  here  in  Girgenti  the  cloud  effects 
are  magnificent.  They  tear  and  scud  across  the 
sky,  casting  deep  shadows  on  the  endless  expanse  of 
sea,  which  reaches  as  far  from  right  to  left,  when 
you  are  facing  the  south,  as  the  eye  can  see.  There 
is  something  tragic  about  the  scenery  of  Girgenti, 
something  mysterious  in  the  effect  it  has  upon  one. 
"  You  would  always  stand  in  awe  of  its  beauty," 
Doris  says,  M  even  if  you  had  played  as  a  baby 
around  its  temples ;  it  is  not  a  place  to  love  and 
grow  fond  of.  Some  places,  like  some  people, 
command  respect,  while  others  beget  love."  Sicily 
is  all  gold  and  grey,  all  sunshine  and  shadow,  but  I 
think  the  shadows  rest  longest  on  Girgenti. 

We  wished  to  walk  to  the  temples  yesterday, 
having  had  not  too  pleasant  an  experience  with  our 
driver ;  and,  to  vary  the  route,  we  decided  to  follow 
the  ancient  Greek  road  which  leads  down  to  Porto 
Empedocle.  We  engaged  the  services  of  a  small 
boy  to  act  as  guide.  He  was  about  twelve  years  of 
age,  and  as  pretty  a  character  as  you  ever  saw ;  it 
was  his  extraordinary  appearance  which  first 
attracted  Doris.  Not  a  garment  he  wore  had 
originally  been  made  or  bought  to  fit  his  slender 
person.  The  boots  on  his  small,  well-shaped  feet, 
which  were  stockingless,  were  women's  boots,  so 
many  sizes  too  large  for  him  that  over  and  over 
again,  as  we  picked  our  way  through  the  ancient 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      183 

rock-strewn  street,  one  or  both  boots  would  be  left 
lodged  between  the  sharp  stones.  His  trousers  had 
literally  no  legs,  they  were  all  seat,  and  had  origin- 
ally been  wore  by  some  man  as  big  as  our  gentle 
giant  at  the  hotel;  the  upper  portions  reached 
almost  to  the  child's  ankles,  so  legs  were  not 
required.  A  coat  of  many  colours,  which  had  been 
made  smaller  round  the  tails  and  left  in  its  original 
baggy  state  at  the  shoulders,  was  set  off  by  a  glaring 
knitted  waistcoat,  which  came  down  almost  to  the 
knees.  The  cap,  the  faded  ghost  of  what  had  once 
been  fine  green  plush,  was  the  only  article  of  dress 
which,  in  a  manner,  fitted  this  grotesque  little 
human  ragbag.  The  boy's  natural  grace  of  limb 
and  Greek  cast  of  features  made  him  look  like  a 
Greek  mounteback  playing  at  being  a  man,  a  thing 
all  tatters  and  remnants,  but  graced  with  the  beauty 
of  the  South.  His  hair  had  faded  with  the  sun  from 
nut-brown  to  tawny  gold ;  the  long  ends  were  full 
of  colour.  But  it  was  the  eyes,  full  of  the  gravity 
of  Sicily,  and  the  eloquent  languor  of  his  race, 
which  gave  the  real  beauty  to  the  face. 

When  we  met  him,  his  arms  were  full  of  fresh 
dandelions,  which  he  told  us  he  was  taking  home  to 
his  mother  for  a  salad.  Sicilians  love  green  food, 
and  Providence  has  been  kind  in  supplying  them 
with  a  plentiful  variety  of  hedge  salads,  as  any  price, 
however  low,  would  be  more  than  they  could  afford 
to  pay  for  garden-grown  food.  This  says  a  good 
deal  for  their  poverty  :  a  landlady  once  told  me  that 
she  could  buy  enough  lettuces  to  serve  a  party  of 
thirty  for  twopence. 

We  offered  the  boy  twenty  cents  if  he  would  act 
as  our  guide  for  the  afternoon ;  he  was  delighted. 
Without  a  moment's  thought,  his  fine  salad  was 
stowed  inside  his  waistcoat ;  he  was  not  the  proud 


184      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

possessor  of  a  shirt,  so  the  evening  salad  lay  for  two 
long  hours  pressed  close  to  his  proud  breast. 

"  His  costume,  made  up  of  other  people's  rags," 
Doris  said,  "  reminds  me  of  a  little  dressmaker  I 
employ  at  home.  She  dresses  herself  entirely  on 
the  old  clothes  her  customers  give  her.  I  met  her 
one  day  in  deep  mourning,  and,  as  she  was  looking 
very  pensive,  I  expressed  my  hopes  that  she  had 
not  lost  any  near  relative. 

"  '  Oh  no,  miss,  thank  you,'  she  said.  ■  Mrs. 
Johnes  has  just  gone  out  of  crape  and  I  am  making 
her  second  mourning ;  these  were  the  weeds  she 
wore  for  her  husband.' 

"  I  suppose  that  others  people's  crape  is  very 
depressing,  which  accounted  for  the  pensive  ex- 
pression, or  perhaps  she  thought  a  widow's  weeds 
demanded  a  suitable  sorrow." 

As  the  boy  ran  on  in  front  of  us,  shuffling  in  and 
out  of  his  shoes,  and  carrying  Doris'  heavy  cloak  in 
his  young  arms,  he  turned  round  to  smile  a  smile  of 
grateful  thanks  at  short  intervals.  After  a  toilsome 
walk,  we  left  the  ancient  road  and  rejoined  the 
modern  carriage-road.  When  we  reached  the  con- 
vent of  St.  Nicola,  the  woman  in  charge  of  the 
place,  who  acts  as  a  guide,  refused  the  boy  admit- 
tance ;  indeed,  she  looked  upon  us  as  very  doubtful 
visitors  for  having  permitted  this  little  street  Arab 
to  escort  us. 

"  He  is  a  fresh-air  Arab,  at  any  rate,"  Doris 
said,  "  and  he  doesn't  smell  a  bit;  that  sunburnt 
skin  and  bleached  hair  are  not  suggestive  of  dark 
streets  and  stuffy  rooms." 

The  convent  is  desolate  and  picturesque.  The 
very  bad  oranges,  of  which  we  partook  while  seated 
on  the  high  terrace,  which  commands  a  beautiful 
view  of  the  temples,  grow  in  wanton  waste  in  the 
neglected  garden.     The  heavy  scent  of  freesias  and 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      185 

heliotrope  filled  the  air,  and  an  immense  stone-pine 
threw  a  shadow  over  the  garden  like  a  wide-spread 
umbrella.  These  magnificent  trees  stand  like 
sentinels  in  the  lonely  Sicilian  landscape ;  they  be- 
come irrevocably  a  part  of  the  country  in  one's 
memory. 

There  is  a  beautiful  white  marble  frieze  of  Greek 
workmanship,  which  acts  as  a  cornice  to  the  high 
white  terrace  in  the  garden.  No  one  knows  its 
history,  where  it  came  from,  or  why  it  is  there  now. 
The  ruined  chapel  is  now  a  night-shelter  for  some 
fine  peacocks  and  guinea-fowls;  the  former  kept 
whisking  open  their  tails  for  our  pleasure,  like  a 
lady  opening  and  shutting  her  fan.  Doris  said,  "  I 
wonder  if  they  expect  a  tip,  like  everything  else  in 
Girgenti?  Perhaps  it  is  their  form  of  begging/ ' 
Outside  the  convent,  sitting  on  the  steps  under  the 
fine  old  Norman  doorway,  were  the  ubiquitous 
vendors  of  antiques. 

Here  it  is  Antichita,  Antichita,  all  day  long,  for 
Girgenti  is  a  paradise  for  the  eager  collector.  At 
every  step  you  are  molested  by  beggars,  who  draw 
from  their  pockets  small  packets  of  much-defaced 
coins  wrapped  up  in  alarmingly  dirty  paper;  the 
greater  portion  of  these  coins  are  valueless,  and  of 
no  beauty,  although  they  are  undoubtedly  genuine. 
But  there  are  grades  of  coin  vendors  and  sellers 
of  antichita. 

There  are  three  dignified  brothers,  for  instance, 
alike  as  three  peas  in  a  pod,  who  are  licensed  exca- 
vators. They  are  as  tall  and  thin  and  as  dark-haired 
and  sunburnt  as  Arabs,  and  as  gentle- voiced  as 
women.  The  Government,  being  too  poor  to  do 
much  excavating  in  Sicily,  and  there  being  so  much 
excavating  still  to  be  done,  has  devised  the  plan  of 
permitting  these  fellows  to  search  for  antiquities  by 
themselves  in  certain  parts  round  Girgenti,  under 


188      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

cauliflowers,  embedded  in  their  green  leaves,  are 
even  more  charming.  It  seems  as  if  the  South 
could  not  get  enough  colour  into  her  landscape,  but 
she  must  needs  give  her  vegetables  rich  purples  and 
blues.  Artichokes  never  grow  to  a  great  height  in 
Sicily,  but  their  leaves  are  much  finer  and  have 
more  colour  in  them  than  they  have  in  England ; 
they  have  usurped  the  place  in  the  landscape  which 
a  few  weeks  ago  was  given  over  to  fennel.  Fennel 
is  the  Sicilian  celery,  and  is  even  more  an  article  of 
common  food  in  every  household  in  Sicily  than 
potatoes  are  at  home.  I  think,  to  fully  appreciate 
Sicily,  you  must  enjoy  her  fennel  and  delicious 
artichokes ;  the  latter  are  cooked  in  every  conceiv- 
able way,  and  for  some  months  of  the  year  no 
dinner  is  complete  without  them. 

This  afternoon  Doris  received  a  letter  from  the 
young  students  in  Castrogiovanni.  It  Is  most 
amusing  and  untranslatable.  What  is  graceful 
and  pretty  in  Italian  sounds  absurd  in  English, 
especially  when  you  associate  it  with  a  schoolboy  of 
fifteen. 

This  is  the  last  I  shall  write  to  you  from  Girgenti. 
We  leave  for  Palermo  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Our  little  world — Doris'  and  mine — will  be  shared 
by  others  then.  We  have  not  seen  a  fellow- 
countryman  or  woman  since  we  left  Syracuse,  for 
we  have  chosen  the  hour  for  enjoying  the  temples 
when  the  occupants  of  the  Hotel  des  Temples  are 
in  their  rooms  dressing  for  dinner,  and  of  course  the 
one-day  tourist  to  Girgenti  has  no  time  for  other 
sights. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  go  to  the  principal  hotel  in  any 
place.  You  pay  the  top  price  and  receive  the 
cheapest  courtesy.  The  native  inn,  unfrequented 
by  foreigners,  reveals  another  Sicily  to  you.  The 
landlord,  who  is  your  host  a.nd  cook,  is  unfailing 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       189 

in  his  efforts  to  please  you,  while  the  waiters  and 
servants  smile  on  you  and  bless  you  for  a  quarter  of 
the  tip  you  would  dare  to  give  their  more  exalted 
brothers  at  the  Hotel  des  Temples.  In  all  the 
excursions  we  have  made,  we  have  invariably  chosen 
to  take  our  meals  at  native  restaurants  in  preference 
to  those  patronised  by  our  fellow-countrymen. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


13 


Palermo, 

March,    1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

Alas !  we  are  back  in  a  city  of  flats,  plate- 
glass  windows,  and  electric  cars,  and  an  opera-house 
large  enough  to  meet  the  requirements  of  New 
York.  Palermo  is  sheltered,  or  thinks  itself  shel- 
tered (we  have  already  felt  its  hot  wind),  by  the 
beautiful  pink  Monte  Pellegrino,  which  holds  the 
shrine  of  Santa  Rosalia,  the  patron  girl-saint  of  the 
city. 

The  famous  grotto  of  Santa  Rosalia,  where  the 
youthful  devotee  (the  niece  of  the  good  Norman 
king,  William  the  Second)  is  supposed  to  have  per- 
formed her  devotions  when  she  fled  from  the  gay 
world  to  the  mountains,  is  a  popular  pilgrimage 
place ;  it  is  visited  by  thousands  of  devout  worship- 
pers throughout  the  year. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  you  a  correct  impression  of 
Palermo.  It  is  woefully  disappointing  at  first 
sight,  so  altogether  different  from  what  we  had 
expected  it  to  be.  Perhaps  we  have  been  too 
quickly  transported  from  the  Epoca  Greca  of 
Girgenti  to  have  found  our  feet  as  yet  in  modern 
noisy  Palermo,  for  so  far  we  have  not  shaken  off 
our  first  impression  that  Palermo  is  a  little  capital 
trying  its  best  to  keep  pace  with  the  big  capitals  of 

Europe. 

190 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      191 

If  it  were  not  an  ambitious  capital,  Palermo 
would  be  enchanting;  but,  being  a  capital,  the 
narrow  old  streets,  with  their  glorious  Sicilian 
Gothic  palaces  and  cool  courtyards,  are  thrust  into 
the  background  by  the  wide  modern  boulevards, 
open  to  the  merciless  sun  and  wind,  with  these 
ambitious  blocks  of  mansions  which  contain  many 
flats. 

How  have  the  mighty  fallen  in  Palermo,  when 
to-day  Sicilian  princes,  whose  Norman  palaces  were 
once  fortresses,  garrisoned  by  private  retainers,  cast 
longing  eyes  at  the  five-roomed  flats,  with  sleeping 
accommodation  for  one  servant !  When  hundreds 
of  fine  palaces  are  standing  empty  in  the  city,  it 
seems  a  little  difficult  for  the  ordinary  stranger  to 
find  a  reason  or  the  necessity  for  erecting  these  flats 
in  Palermo.  But  the  Sicilian  would  dearly  love  to 
have  his  capital  considered  a  gay,  giddy,  go-ahead- 
dog  of  a  city. 

And,  indeed,  Palermo  is  quite  a  city  (as  Miss 
Rosina  would  say),  with  fashionable  streets,  where 
goats  would  not  dare  to  tread.  In  the  new  boule- 
vards and  in  the  noisy  Via  Macqueda,  where  you 
cannot  hear  yourself  for  the  clang,  clang,  clanging 
of  the  electric-car  bells  and  the  rattling  of  the  cabs 
over  the  cobble-paved  streets,  you  are  indeed  far 
removed  in  spirit  and  atmosphere  from  the  poetry 
and  mystery  of  Sicily. 

Two  main  streets,  the  Via  Macqueda  and  the 
Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele,  divide  the  city  into  four 
quarters.  At  the  meeting  of  the  four  half -streets 
there  is  a  small  octagonal-shaped  piazza.  It  is 
called  the  Quattro  Canti,  and  has  four  elaborate 
Spanish  fountains  to  decorate  its  corners.  This 
piazza  is  the  very  centre  of  Palermo,  and,  I  think, 


192      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

it  might  be  called  the  heart  of  Sicily.  I  am  sure  it 
is  the  incubator  of  most  of  her  iniquities.  From 
morning  till  night,  and  during  the  night  more  than 
at  any  other  time,  this  piazza  is  crowded  with  idle 
loafers,  over-dressed  young  men,  scowling  socialists, 
excited  politicians,  and  anxious  financiers.  The 
noise  of  the  gay  splashing  fountains  is  drowned  by 
the  ever-increasing  babel  of  voices. 

I  do  not  like  the  Quattro  Canti,  or  the  Via 
Macqueda,  or  the  Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele,  or  the 
Via  Cavour,  for  they  are  typical  of  the  Sicily  of 
to-day,  which  does  not  inspire  you  with  a  respect 
or  admiration  for  the  nation.  How  detestable  the 
black-coated  young  men,  with  their  degenerated 
physiques,  are  to  us  after  the  splendid  fellows  of 
the  mountains!  and  the  hats,  decked  with  cheap 
feathers  and  cotton  flowers,  on  the  heads  of  the 
young  girls  tell  their  story  only  too  plainly. 

In  these  gay  streets,  where  the  impertinently 
moustached  youths  hustle  you  off  the  narrow  foot- 
paths if  you  are  old,  and  openly  ogle  you  if  you 
are  young  and  fair,  you  have  to  devote  your  atten- 
tion so  entirely  to  the  task  of  keeping  your  footing 
and  edging  your  way  through  the  struggling 
crowds,  that  you  dare  scarcely  lift  your  eyes  from 
the  ground.  This  is  a  pity,  for  at  the  end  of  almost 
every  street  in  Palermo  you  can  see  blue  mountains 
soaring  into  a  bluer  sky.  These  beautifully  out- 
lined mountains  ring  themselves  round  and  shelter 
the  famous  Conca  d'Oro.  This  "  golden  shell," 
as  the  fertile  plain  is  so  poetically  called,  is  one  of 
the  Edens  of  Sicily. 

Viewed  from  the  height  of  the  little  town  of 
Monreale,  famous  the  world  over  for  its  mosaic- 
lined  cathedral,  It  is  easy  to  understand  why  the 
term  La  fellce  was  given  to  Palermo.     The  shel- 


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BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      193 

tered  city  stretches  its  arms  from  the  blue  sea  to 
the  fruitful  golden  shell ;  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  it 
will  not  open  its  arms  too  far,  for  the  Conca  d'Oro 
is  the  golden  setting  of  this  jewel  city. 

The  Sicilian  capital  has  undoubtedly  an  unrivalled 
situation;  the  Bay  of  Palermo  is  a  professional 
beauty,  like  Sydney  Harbour ;  it  is  considered  by 
many  to  be  as  beautiful  as  the  Bay  of  Naples,  but 
in  a  less  dramatic  fashion.  Of  course  Pellegrino 
is  not  Vesuvius,  but  this  pilgrim  mountain  has  a 
strange  beauty  of  its  own,  and  an  important  historic 
interest  attaching  to  it  which  casts  a  shadow  of 
romance  over  the  bay.  It  was  here  that  Hamilcar, 
nicknamed  the  Thunderbolt  (father  of  the  great 
Hannibal),  settled  with  his  soldiers  and  held  out 
against  the  Romans  for  three  years ;  nor  in  the  end 
was  he  starved  out,  but  he  left  his  precipice  of  his 
own  free  will  to  drop  his  thunderbolt  on  Eryx, 
another  of  the  rock  cities  of  Sicily.  The  colossal 
pink  rock  of  Pellegrino  does  not  look  to-day  as  if  it 
were  capable  of  having  raised  corn  sufficient  to 
supply  the  garrison  of  Hamilcar  for  three  years, 
but  history  relates  that  it  nobly  rose  to  the  occasion, 
and  Cicero,  in  his  impeachment  of  Verres  con- 
stantly refers  to  Sicily  being  the  granary  of  Europe. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay  is  Monte  Catalfano, 
a  long,  low  line  of  hills  gently  stretching  far  out  to 
sea. 

The  view  from  the  Marina  is  beautiful.  Doris 
and  I  love  to  turn  our  backs  on  the  busy  streets  and 
idle  there,  anticipating  the  appearance  of  Etna, 
which  is  promised  to  us  on  the  first  clear  day ;  for 
Sicily  without  Etna  is  not  Sicily,  when  once  you 
have  lived  under  that  dominating  presence. 

The  Marina  in  the  warm  summer  nights  is  the 
popular   rendezvous   of   all   Palermitans.      Great 


194      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

stories  we  are  told  of  the  gay  scenes  which  take 
place  there  in  the  languorous  warmth  ojt*  June  and 
July.  Ices  and  cool  drinks  of  every  variety  are  sold 
on  the  Marina  from  sundown  until  the  day  breaks, 
and  eaten  and  drunk  in  alarming  numbers  by  the 
parched  citizens  who  sit  on  their  white  Marina  close 
to  the  sea,  longing  for  the  cooler  hours  which  come 
between  the  fading  of  the  stars  and  the  rising  of 
the  sun. 

Of  course  the  town  band  plays  while  the  lovers 
linger  and  the  midnight  ices  are  eaten.  Where  the 
poor  fellows  get  their  wind  from  I  do  not  know,  but 
a  town  band  must  play  in  Sicily  even  if  it  is  too 
hot  for  a  cricket  to  sing.  Night  in  a  Southern  city 
is  a  wonderful  thing ;  soft  air  and  softer  glances  play 
the  mischief  with  a  man's  morals,  and  there  are  so 
many  idle  hands  to  keep  Satan  busy  that  one  feels 
quite  sorry  for  the  poor  devil. 

At  this  time  of  the  year  the  popular  Passeggiata 
is  on  the  Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele  which  ends  at 
the  Marina,  so  that  if  the  day  is  unusually  warm  the 
drive  may  be  continued  along  the  sea  front ;  but  it 
must  be  very  warm  to  tempt  a  man  or  woman  of 
fashion  at  Palermo  to  leave  the  crush  of  carriages 
and  the  noise  and  excitement  of  the  busy  street  for 
the  quiet  of  the  Marina.  This  Passeggiata  is  a 
wonderful  thing ;  for  stupidity  and  dulness  it  beats 
our  church  parade  in  the  park  hollow.  For  the 
young  man  in  London  who  stands  with  his  compan- 
ions on  the  social  climb,  pinned  with  his  back 
against  the  railings,  very  much  resembling  a  spar- 
row on  a  spit,  has  at  least  the  chance  of  speaking 
to  a  girl  of  his  acquaintance  should  he  see  her  in  the 
crowd;  but  the  Sicilian  young  man  can  only  bow 
either  from  the  obscure  distance  of  a  very  closed 
carriage  or  from  the  crowded  footpath. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      195 

But  "  carriage  folk  "  do  not  often  bow  to  foot 
folk  in  Sicily,  they  look  the  other  way ;  for  if  you 
are  too  poor  to  hire  a  carriage  when  a  corso  only 
costs  fifty  cents,  or  to  keep  a  conveyance,  of  a  sort, 
of  your  own,  you  must  indeed  have  come  to  the 
point  of  starvation.  "  I  cannot  afford  to  drive, 
and  to  walk  I  am  ashamed  "  keeps  many  descend- 
ants of  bygone  Palermitan  princes  from  joining  in 
this  social  event  of  their  day.  Poor,  proud  Sicily, 
starving  within  her  despoiled  palaces !  since  her 
sons  are  not  men  enough  to  see  the  nobility  of  work. 
In  England  the  first  thing  a  man  in  reduced  circum- 
stances parts  with  is,  as  a  rule,  his  carriages  and 
horses;  it  is  his  natural  idea  of  retrenching  the 
expenses  of  his  establishment.  A  Sicilian  will  sell 
almost  everything,  and  often  come  near  going  with- 
out food  itself,  before  he  will  part  with  his  carriage 
and  horses.  It  is  not  that  he  loves  his  horses  better 
than  an  Englishman,  but  that  his  foolish  pride  will 
not  let  him  shake  off  the  yoke  of  custom.  Society 
expects  him  to  keep  up  this  pitiful  appearance  of 
luxury,  just  as  it  expects  his  hands  to  be  above  work 
and  his  brains  beneath  intelligence? 

Up  and  down  this  noisy,  crowded  street  the  occu- 
pants of  the  various  carriages  pass  and  repass  each 
other  a  dozen  times  in  an  afternoon.  Even  in  the 
finest  weather  the  carriages  are  for  the  most  part 
closed,  and  all  you  catch  sight  of  is  rich  furs,  and 
dark  eyes  gleaming  eloquent  answers  to  some  ar- 
dent glance  from  some  other  carriage.  This 
wonderful  drive  does  not  begin  till  sundown  even  in 
the  winter.  I  cannot  explain  why,  unless  Sicilians 
dine  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  as  people  used 
to  in  Scotland. 

At  this  time  the  narrow  side-walk  is  crowded 
with  overdressed  men  and  women  of  the  well-to-do 


196      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

lower  classes,  and  undersized  boys,  with  bold  star- 
ing eyes,  twirling  cheap  gaily  headed  walking-sticks. 
These  wretched  boys  hang  about  the  pavements, 
ogling  and  criticising  every  woman  who  passes.  I 
have  seen  nothing  so  degenerate,  or  so  wholly  offen- 
sive, as  these  cheaply  dressed,  idle  youths  of 
Palermo,  who  make  a  sort  of  outdoor  club  of  the 
Quattro  Canti,  and  who  spend  their  days  in 
smoking  cigarettes — or  the  ends  of  cigarettes. 
Moving  along  in  the  stream  of  carriages  you  will 
see  cavalry  officers  in  their  pale  blue  cloth  cloaks, 
and  darker  uniforms  gleaming  with  silver  braid, 
their  legs  elegantly  crossed  and  stretched  well  across 
the  small,  badly  constructed  cabs,  for  which  they 
pay  the  large  sum  of  fourpence-halfpenny  for  a 
corso.  Next  comes  the  young  Sicilian  man-about- 
town,  who  has  a  little  money  and  knows  well  how 
to  get  rid  of  it ;  he  will  be  driving  in  a  smart  little 
dog-cart  with  a  hog-maned  mare,  looking  as  Eng- 
lish as  possible,  considering  the  natural  obstacles  in 
his  way.  It  is  curious,  I  think,  how  the  men  of  all 
nations  wish  to  appear  English,  while  a  woman  is 
never  so  pleased  as  when  you  tell  her  that  a  bonnet 
or  a  gown  is  "  very  French."  I  believe  an  English- 
man could  make  a  man  his  enemy  for  life  if  he  told 
him  he  looked  just  like  a  Frenchman,  even  if  he 
said  it  in  the  most  flattering  tone.  It  may  be  one 
thing  for  a  Frenchman  to  feel  French,  but  it  is 
another  thing  for  him  to  look  it.  Can  patriotism 
go  so  far  ? 

Some  of  the  carriages — those  belonging  to  the 
very  wealthy  nobles — are  exquisitely  appointed, 
and  the  absurdly  high-stepping  horses  have  a  showy 
beauty  dear  to  the  hearts  of  their  owners.  Italian 
horse-dealers  go  over  the  British  Isles  and  buy  up 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       197 

every  showy,  high-stepping  brute  they  can  lay  their 
hands  on — horses  which  would  scarcely  fetch  a  song 
in  England,  where  a  man  looks  for  something 
better  in  his  beast  than  a  circus  action.  Contrasted 
with  these  smart  carriages  are  the  antiquated  old 
family  barouches,  which  look  as  if  they  had  been 
painted  and  upholstered  at  home  for  many  genera- 
tions, and  are  drawn  by  horses  as  woefully  depressed 
and  humble  in  appearance.  A  horse  that  has  seen 
better  days  feels  his  position  keenly  when  he  is  made 
to  join  in  a  parade  of  this  sort ;  I  have  often  grieved 
for  these  poor  brutes,  whose  feelings  are  apparently 
so  much  more  sensitive  than  their  masters'. 

And  now  I  must  tell  you  about  Doris  and  my- 
self, and  after  that  perhaps  you  will  say  that  you 
now  know  the  reason  for  the  note  of  discord  which 
has  arisen  in  Sicily.     It  may  be  so,  but  I  think  not. 

This  morning  Doris  came  to  me  looking  a  little 
distressed.  She  wished  to  say  something  and  did 
not  know  how  to  begin. 

"  Palermo  is  horribly  civilised,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 

"  Horribly,"  I  answered;  "  but  there  is  the 
beautiful  mediaeval  Palermo,  with  its  Arabo-Nor- 
man  palaces  and  churches,  which  we  haven't  yet 
seen.  I  think  we  shall  find  it  less  civilised  than  you 
imagine — its  civilisation  is  probably  only  skin- 
deep." 

"  I  didn't  mean  civilised  quite  in  that  way;  I 
mean  that  one  cannot  do  just  quite  what  one  likes 
in  Palermo.  One  must  be  a  little  more  conven- 
tional  " 

The  words  were  spoken  in  a  way  which  told  me 
there  was  more  to  follow. 

u  You  must  wear  gloves,  I  suppose,  and  perhaps 


198      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

you  will  buy  a  veil;  but  I  don't  think  we  need 
bother  about  the  fashionable  Palermo.' * 

We  were  silent  for  a  moment,  when  she  said 
abruptly : 

"  I  hate  old  women,  don't  you?  They  can 
think  such  horrid  things  about  such  nice  people." 

"  What  have  they  been  thinking  about  you?"  I 
asked.  I  could  hear  by  the  tone  of  her  voice  that 
anything  rather  than  sympathy  from  me  was  politic 
at  the  moment. 

"  Oh,  idiotic,  absurd  things  that  nobody  but  old 
maids  would  think  of.  I  know  such  an  idea  never 
entered  into  your  head." 

"  Tell  me  what  idea,"  I  said.  "  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  worth  troubling  about,  whether  it  is  true  or 
not." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,"  she  replied,  her  quiver- 
ing face  distressed  with  blushes.  "  It  is  so  absurd 
and  so  vulgar." 

"  If  it  is  vulgar  and  connected  with  you,  I  never 
entertained  it  for  one  moment.  But  can't  you  tell 
me? — it  does  one  good  to  be  out  with  things." 

"  Well,  I  mean  .  .  .  it  is  vulgar  and  unladylike 
and  .  .  .  Oh !  .  .  .  just  like  old  women,  to  think 
that  people  can't  be  just  friends,  because  one  is  a 
man  and  the  other  is  a  girl ! "  After  the  hesitation 
at  the  beginning  of  this  rather  vague  explanation, 
the  words  were  got  out  with  a  rush. 

M  Have  they  been  busy  over  our  friendship?" 
I  asked.  "  I  suppose  in  the  big  salon  last  night 
they  put  you  through  a  cross-examination?" 

"  Yes ;  and  they  are  not  so  easily  satisfied  as  the 
driver  at  Castrogiovanni.  I  can't  leave  them  with 
the  simple  fact  that  I  am  your  niece,  for  I  can  see 
that  they  are  interested  in  us;  that  the  lie  would 
not  stop  there."- 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       199 

M  What  have  they  been  worrying  you  about?" 
I  said.  "  Why  tell  them  anything  ?  They  are  the 
usual  human  rats  which  infest  any  cheap  hotel  or 
boarding-house  in  Europe.  You  can't  get  away 
from  them ;  no  climate  will  kill  them,  and  they  live 
forever." 

"  I  had  to  tell  them  something,  so  I  told  them 
that  ....  you  were  quite  old  enough  .  .  .  no,  I 
mean  that  I  was  young  enough  to  be " 

"  My  daughter,"  I  said,  finishing  her  sentence. 
"  So  you  are,  little  one;  quite  young  enough." 

"  I  wish  I  was  your  daughter,"  she  replied. 
"  But  perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  you  aren't  old  enough 
to  be  my  father — that  is  what  they  mean,  I 
suppose?" 

"  Quite  old  enough,"  I  said. 

"  '  A  woman  is  as  old  as  she  looks,'  they  told  me ; 
'  and  a  man  as  old  as  he  feels.'  .  .  .  How  old  do  you 
feel?"     She  asked  the  question  a  little  sadly. 

"  Young  enough  to  wring  their  necks,"  I  said 
savagely. 

"  But  you  do  feel  old  enough  to  be  my  father, 
don't  you?     I  have  not  been  foolish?" 

"  If  your  father  had  lived,"  I  said,  "  how  old 
would  he  have  been  to-day?" 

"  I  was  born  when  he  was  only  twenty-four," 
she  said,  with  a  little  smile,  "  and  that  was  in  the 
year " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  with  a  ring  of  sincerity  in  my 
voice ;  "  I  feel  quite  old  enough  to  have  been  your 
father." 

"  I  know  you  do,  dear  friend.  Surely  even  a  girl 
knows  when  a  man  treats  her  like  a  father.  You 
would  have  been  silly  and  sentimental  before  now 
if  you  had  ever  thought  of  me  in  any  other  way. 
They— they "    she    hesitated,—"  they    don't 


200      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

know  that  we  have  been  to  Castrogiovanni  or 
Girgenti." 

"  Then  they  never  shall  know,  and  please  forget 
all  that  they  have  said,"  I  urged,  taking  her  hand 
in  mine.  "  Remember,  that  people  with  small 
lives  of  their  own  are  always  busy  about  other 
people's." 

"  I'll  try  to  forget,"  she  answered,  not  raising 
her  usually  frank  sweet  eyes  to  mine,  M  but  these 
things  stick  to  one.  They  are  not  like  famous  dates 
in  history  which  one  tries  to  remember  and  always 
forgets." 

The  upshot  of  it  all  is  that  I  am  going  to  remain 
in  this  old  palace  and  Doris  is  going  to  the  Hotel 
des  Palmes.  She  has  taken  a  dislike  to  this  place 
and  to  the  class  of  people  in  it,  so  she  says ;  but  I 
can  clearly  see  that  the  old  gossips  have  been  hint- 
ing that  there  is  something  more  than  platonic 
affection  in  my  attitude  towards  her. 

They  have  taken  it  upon  themselves  after  only 
two  evenings'  acquaintance  to  give  her  some  wise 
advice.  I  am,  it  appears,  a  foolish  old  man,  who 
has  fallen  in  love  with  a  girl  who  is  too  young  and 
too  innocent  to  grasp  the  situation. 

"  No  man  who  isn't  your  father  can  ever  feel  old 
enough  to  be  so,  if  you  are  a  woman  and  pretty," 
they  told  her,  "  no  matter  what  your  age  may  be. 
But  a  woman  often  feels  young  enough  to  be  the 
daughter  of  the  man  she  marries." 

Poor  little  Doris !  I  know  that  she  is  distressed  at 
the  idea  that  she  may  have  caused  me  pain.  So  far 
she  has  taken  everything  for  granted  delightfully ; 
she  has  been  so  confident  that  I  feel  as  old  as  she 
evidently  thinks  I  am.  There  is  a  new  look  in  her 
face  to-day  of  something  discovered,  there  is  even 
a  hint  of  shyness  in  her  manner  towards  me. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      201 

She  had  a  letter  from  her  guardian  to-day,  and 
she  is  to  join  him  in  Malta  in  a  month's  time.  Poor 
child,  she  dreads  her  life  there  with  her  new 
guardianess;  but  if  this  marriage  had  not  taken 
place  Doris  would  not  have  been  sent  to  Syracuse. 
The  cunning  old  fox  knew  the  Villa  Politi  pretty 
well ;  Malta  is  but  a  night's  sail  from  Syracuse,  and 
he  was  sure  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear  in  the  way 
of  penniless  suitors  for  his  pretty  ward  there,  and 
Madame  Politi  is  the  kindest  and  best  of  women. 

Of  course  we  will  continue  to  do  sight-seeing, 
Doris  and  I,  but  the  we  two-ness  of  it  is  finished. 

Yours  affectionately, 

J.  C. 


Palermo,  The  Happy  City  (In  urbe  felici  Panorma), 

Palazza  Monteleone, 

March  lyth. 

Dearest  Louise, — 

The  Palermo  newsboys  are  making  the 
streets  echo  with  the  "  Capture  of  Bloernfontein." 
What  voices  they  have  got,  to  be  sure !  more 
musical  than  our  newspaper  boys  at  home,  and 
pitched  many  notes  higher. 

The  Palazzo  Monteleone  is  served  by  a  newspaper 
man,  not  a  boy;  at  each  meal  he  comes  into  the 
sala  and  salutes  the  crowd.  If  there  is  good  news 
of  the  war  he  goes  first  to  the  Englishpeople  seated 
at  the  table  and  offers  them  his  different  papers 
with  a  complacent  smile ;  if  there  is  a  reverse,  or 
the  rumour  of  one,  which  is  not  unusual,  he  apolo- 
gises and  goes  to  every  one  in  their  turn.  He  seems 
to  consider  himself  personally  responsible  for  the 
contents  of  the  various  papers,  and  thinks  it  is  rude 
to  offer  you  bad  news.  He  is  really  most  enter- 
taining. As  most  people  can  read  newspaper 
Italian  upon  subjects  like  the  war  in  South  Africa, 
he  has  a  very  good  sale  for  his  wares.  Sicilians 
love  newspapers,  I  think,  next  to  lotteries;  they 
are  more  universally  bought  by  the  very  poor  in 
Sicily  than  they  are  in  England. 

But  the  newspaper  boys  are  nowhere  with  the 
ordinary  street  hawker,  who  suddenly  startles  the 
whole  community  by  shouting  out  his  wares.  Until 
your  ears  have  heard  a  Sicilian  calling  out  that  his 
purple  cauliflowers  are  fresh  and  cheap,  you  have 

aoa 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      203 

not  fully  recognised  what  the  Latin  tongue  can  do. 
He  begins  his  cry  with  great  clearness  and  dramatic 
eloquence.  When  the  end  comes  he  simply  opens 
his  mouth  and  lets  go.  Although  it  startles  you 
almost  off  the  footpath  you  cannot  help  admiring 
the  music  of  his  voice  and  the  cadence  of  the  cry. 

But  what  the  street  hawker  has  to  sell  is  even 
more  amusing  than  the  way  he  sells  it.  The 
sponge-seller,  with  his  person  literally  hung  in 
wreaths  and  covered  in  every  conceivable  way  with 
bleached- white  sponges,  yellow  sponges,  dark 
sponges,  little  sponges,  big  sponges,  monster 
sponges,  would  give  you  the  impression  that  bath- 
ing was  a  popular  amusement  in  Palermo.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  the  inhabit- 
ants of  these  dark,  mediaeval  streets,  where  the 
hawkers  cry  their  wares,  have  ever  been  under 
water  in  their  lives.  The  next  man  who  carries  his 
shop  on  his  back,  and  so  saves  his  rent,  is  the  fur- 
seller.  He  is  perhaps  the  most  unique  figure  of 
them  all.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  for  what 
purpose  he  sells  cat-skins  of  every  variety,  dyed 
and  undyed,  roughly  cured  and  left  in  their  natural 
state,  or  what  is  the  living  nature  of  the  beast, 
whose  skin  so  resembles  a  'possum .  This  particular 
skin  is  always  sewn  up  and  inflated  with  wind  to 
resemble  the  living  beast  as  nearly  as  possible.  You 
can  buy  one  of  these  inflated  skins  for  two  francs, 
and  the  villain  tells  you  the  fact  often  enough. 
Why  he  should  think  that  poor  people  who  live  in 
the  dark  basements  of  high  palaces  desire  to  pur- 
chase an  unlimited  supply  of  wild  foxes  just 
emptied  and  roughly  cured,  I  do  not  know ;  but  he 
assures  them  in  every  tone  of  voice  that  they  are 
genuine  bargains  and  very  rare.  Rough  goat-skins 
and  sheep-skins,  white  and  black,  hang  from  his 


204      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

shoulders  down  to  his  feet ;  and  on  his  arms,  which 
are  extended  as  wide  as  possible,  there  are  puppies' 
skins,  rabbit-skins,  rat-skins,  and  every  conceivable 
kind  of  inferior  skin,  hanging  like  clothes  on  a  line 
to  dry.  There  is,  as  in  Syracuse,  no  carriage  traffic 
of  any  kind  in  these  dark  streets,  so  that  these 
human  shops  have  the  right  to  the  middle  of  the 
road.  Dark  heads  are  thrust  out  inquisitively  from 
high  windows,  and  the  idle  women  sitting  at  the 
open  fronts  of  the  dark  bassi  bandy  words  with  the 
pedler  as  he  passes.     He  is  quite  a  wit. 

But  it  is  the  water-seller  whom  we  know  best,  for 
he  alone  cries  his  simple  trade  in  the  fashionable 
streets  as  well  as  in  the  dark  places.  Acqua  fresca, 
acqual  acqua,  is  a  familiar  street  cry  on  a  warm 
sunny  day  in  Palermo.  The  water  is  carried  about 
in  terra-cotta  pitchers  of  immense  size  and  of  per- 
fect Greek  form,  and  gaily  painted  wooden  tables 
with  fine  brass  covers,  fitted  like  cruet-stands,  hold 
the  drinking-glasses  and  small  bottles  of  aniseed  and 
sweet  syrups,  which  the  wealthy  customers  can 
afford  to  indulge  in.  The  tenth  part  of  a  penny 
will  purchase  a  glass  of  cold  water,  which  on  the 
hottest  day  is  beautifully  cool,  for  in  the  South  all 
water  pitchers  are  made  of  porous  pottery,  and  the 
constant  sweating  of  the  water  through  the  earth- 
enware keeps  the  contents  of  the  pitcher  wonder- 
fully cool.  But  even  in  Palermo  let  me  advise  the 
parched  stranger  to  reserve  his  thirst  for  a  glass  of 
wine ;  it  is  safer,  and  will  be  less  expensive  in  the 
end. 

These  ac  qua-sellers  are  delightfully  picturesque 
features  in  the  streets.  The  gaily  painted  tables, 
with  their  brass  tops  glittering  and  flashing  in  the 
sun,  are  carried  easily  in  one  hand,  while  the  Greek 
pitcher  is  held  in  the  other,  and  the  surprising  thing 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      205 

is  that  the  man  does  such  a  roaring  trade  by  simply 
selling  water.  He  puts  down  his  table  every  minute 
and  pours  some  of  the  water  out  of  the  Greek 
pitcher  into  a  queer  glass  tumbler ;  then  to  well-off 
customers  a  drop  or  two  is  shaken  out  of  a  narrow- 
necked  bottle,  with  a  brass  top,  into  the  tumbler, 
and  the  water  at  once  becomes  cloudy,  just  as  if 
ammonia  had  been  put  into  it.  This  uninviting 
beverage  is  handed  to  the  customer  on  a  little  brass 
tray,  just  large  enough  to  hold  the  blown-glass 
tumbler,  and  in  return  one  soldo  is  deposited  in  a 
little  drawer  of  the  table.  The  glass  is  quickly 
returned  to  its  stand,  and  in  another  minute  Acqua, 
acqua,  acqua  fresca !  is  shouted  up  the  street  once 
more. 

The  numerous  public  fountains,  which  are  the 
features  of  any  Sicilian  town,  do  not  spoil  the  man's 
trade.  People  do  not  come  to  the  fountains  to 
drink  water,  but  to  gossip.  Both  churches  and 
fountains  are  accountable  for  a  deal  of  love-making 
and  scandal  in  Sicily,  and  they  are  also  the  happy 
playgrounds  for  little  children.  The  water  which 
is  drawn  from  the  public  fountains  by  bevies  of 
comely  women,  who  come  to  chaperone  each  other, 
is  drawn  only  for  household  purposes,  not  for  cook- 
ing or  drinking.  I  have  often  noticed  how  fond 
babies  are  of  playing  with  water  and  coal ;  there  is 
not  an  infant  born  in  the  purple  of  any  land,  I 
believe,  who  would  not  find  his  way  to  the  coal- 
scuttle if  he  were  left  alone  in  a  drawing-room  for 
five  minutes,  and  in  any  country  a  puddle  of  in- 
different water  appeals  to  every  child.  I  have 
noticed  this  over  and  over  again.  Water  and  coal 
must  be  primitive  tastes,  for  babies  infinitely  prefer 
a  lump  of  good  honest  coal  to  the  finest  silver  rattle 
ever  presented  by  a  dutiful  godparent. 

*4 


206      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

I  must  confess  that  both  the  beauty  and  romance 
of  Palermo  develop  day  by  day.  It  is  a  city  which 
unfolds  its  beauty  to  loving  eyes.  "  Palermo,  the 
happy  city  "  (In  urbe  felici  Panorma),  the  great 
Emperor  Frederick  the  Second  wrote  of  it  on  his 
royal  charters.  The  Royal  Chapel,  or  the  Cappella 
Palatina  as  it  is  called,  built  by  King  Roger  the 
Second  in  1132,  is  the  jewel  of  Sicily.  Even  St. 
Mark's,  in  Venice,  I  think,  has  not  quite  the  same 
poetic  quality  in  its  beauty.  St.  Mark's  is  grander, 
but  when  your  memory  compares  the  two  rivals 
together,  it  is  this  little  Arabo-Norman  chapel,  the 
casket  of  mosaics,  which  appeals  to  your  emotions. 

It  is  indeed  a  king's  chapel,  all  glorious  within. 
To  attempt  to  describe  it  would  show  how  vulgar 
my  estimate  had  been  of  its  rare  beauty.  Can  you 
suggest  in  mere  words  the  rich  glow  of  ancient 
undulating  walls,  encrusted  with  golden  mosaics, 
softened  in  tone  since  King  Roger's  time,  and 
illustrated  with  portraits  and  scenes  of  important 
Biblical  personages  and  events,  wrought  by  people 
whose  one  idea  it  was  to  teach  the  Bible  simply  and 
forcibly  to  those  who  could  not  read.  King  Roger 
made  the  walls  of  his  chapel  the  Bible  of  the  people  : 
here  is  the  beginning  of  the  world  and  the  creation 
of  man,  and  there,  above  the  high  altar,  sits  the 
enthroned  Christ.  Generations  upon  generations 
of  devout  worshippers  have  learned  their  Bible  from 
these  imperishable  mosaics.  Columns  of  porphyry 
and  cipollino  seem  to  drop  down  like  lovely  sta- 
lactites from  the  golden  Saracenic  arches;  every- 
thing is  soft  and  bathed  in  warm  tones,  for,  though 
no  windows  are  visible,  soft  gleams  of  sunshine  do 
pierce  their  way  through  narrow  shafts  in  the 
ancient  walls  to  wake  the  mosaics  into  a  golden 
glory. 


"  The  Cappclla  Palatina      .   .   the  jewel  of  Sicily.     Even  St.   Mark's,   in 
Venice,  I  think,  has  not  quite  the  same  poetic  quality  in  its  beauty." 

[To  face   p.    206. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      207 

But  there!  I  am  daring  to  describe  one  of  the 
wonders  of  mediaeval  art,  making  you  see  in  your 
mind's  eye,  no  doubt,  some  garish  chapel,  a  mass 
of  new  gold,  glass,  and  offensive  marble,  which 
might  serve  for  the  Lord  Mayor's  antechamber  at 
a  City  Company's  banquet. 

If  I  told  you  that  the  beauty  of  the  famous  Easter 
candlestick,  which  stands  fourteen  feet  high  and 
came  from  Constantinople,  although  it  was  carved 
by  Norman  workmen,  almost  brought  tears  to  my 
eyes,  you  would  say  I  had  been  reading  Ruskin, 
and  undermining  my  constitution  by  a  prolonged 
diet  of  slaughtered  kid;  and  I  wonder  what  idea 
you  would  carry  away  of  the  marble  pulpit  if  I  were 
fool  enough  to  tell  you  the  truth  :  that  it  is  one  of 
the  pulpits  built  by  these  earnest  men  of  long  ago, 
who  thought  that  no  stone  was  too  rare  or  priceless, 
no  time  too  long,  no  money  too  much  to  devote 
to  the  beautifying  of  a  throne  from  which  the  word 
of  God  was  to  be  preached.  These  mediaeval  artists 
seem  to  me  to  have  been  men  sent  by  God  to 
beautify  His  sanctuaries  on  earth.  They  were 
divinely  inspired  for  divine  art.  The  chapel  is 
small,  and  it  is  full  of  such  priceless  marbles  that  I 
should  not  have  been  surprised  if  it  had  been 
guarded  night  and  day  by  a  picquet  of  soldiers,  for 
if  such  a  glorious  thing  as  the  priceless  Easter 
candlestick  was  ever  mutilated  and  carried  off,  the 
jewel  of  Sicily  would  be  despoiled.  In  such  a 
country  I  would  have  such  a  treasure  guarded  night 
and  day. 

Palermo,  besides  containing  such  marvels  of 
architectural  beauty  as  the  Cappella  Palatina  and 
the  five-domed  church  of  San  Giovanni  degli  Ere- 
miti,  which  is  one  of  the  earliest  existing  Arabo- 
Norman  churches  (founded  in  1132)  and  the  most 


208      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Oriental  building  in  Palermo,  and  the  Saracenic 
palaces  of  La  Cuba  and  La  Zisa,  has  an  individual 
beauty  of  its  own.  It  is  the  city  par  excellence  of 
palm  gardens,  and  it  is  after  visiting  its  gardens 
that  you  forget  your  first  unfavourable  impression 
of  the  city,  and  own  that  Palermo  is  beautiful. 
The  gardens  of  Palermo  satisfy  your  wildest 
imagination  of  luxurious  Southern  vegetation  and 
beauty.  Indeed,  they  are  typical  of  the  magic 
word  south.  The  Palermitan  calls  his  garden  a 
villa,  which  is  a  little  confusing  to  the  uninitiated 
stranger,  who  naturally  does  not  associate  a  villa  in 
Palermo  with  anything  very  wonderful  or  romantic. 
When  a  cab-driver  urges  you  to  visit  the  Villa  Bel- 
monte  or  the  Villa  Tusca,  or  insists  upon  your  get- 
ting out  of  your  cab  and  walking  through  the  Villa 
Giulia,  he  does  not  mean  you  to  inspect  a  modern 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  but  a  famous 
garden,  not  the  least  bit  German,  or  like  Eliza- 
beth's, but  deliciously  Sicilian  and  picturesque — 
a  garden  whose  herbaceous  border  was  full  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.  In  the  old  days,  the  Sicilian 
nobles,  who  lived  in  the  dark,  fortress-like  palaces 
in  the  city,  always  made  themselves  spacious 
gardens  on  the  borders  of  the  city,  where  they 
carried  out  their  princely  ideas  of  landscape  effects 
in  a  truly  princely  style.  The  city  of  Palermo  has 
grown  since  these  old  gardens  were  made,  but  they 
have  not  been  touched.  The  jerry-builder  has  not 
laid  his  hands  upon  the  beautiful  villas  of  Palermo. 
In  a  climate  like  this,  where  things  grow  for  the 
asking,  and  where  there  is  so  much  to  ask,  vegeta- 
tion assumes  a  magnificence  undreamt  of  in  the 
North.  Indeed,  you  feel  a  little  overwhelmed  by 
the  absolute  abandonment  of  nature  when  you  first 
visit  these  villas.  Things  don't  seem  to  know  how 
to  grow  big  enough,  or  what  new  depth  of  colour 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      209 

to  add  to  the  brilliance  of  their  flowers.  Nothing 
can  flower  or  grow  in  Northern  moderation ;  a  hun- 
dred gardeners  might  cut  and  prune  and  nip  off 
buds  all  day  long,  but  nature  would  outgrow  them. 

Rare  palms  soar  into  the  blue  sky,  endeavouring 
to  shake  themselves  free  of  some  gay  creeper  which 
has  festooned  itself  to  the  heavy  leaves  and  does  not 
mean  to  stop  there ;  it  will  throw  itself  on  to  the 
coral-tree  and  the  spreading  aloe,  and  wreathe  the 
garden  with  a  cataract  of  gold.  Even  the  Judas- 
tree  will  not  escape  its  embraces.  This  creeper, 
the  honey-flower  (Fiore  di  Miele) — for  the  Sicilian 
gardener  calls  every  heavily  scented  flower  which 
feeds  the  bees  a  honey-flower — is  one  of  the  most 
typical  features  in  a  Sicilian  villa.  As  you  approach 
the  gate,  a  breath  of  air  laden  with  the  perfume  of 
freesias  and  honey-flowers  greets  you,  and  you  may 
be  perfectly  certain  that,  however  dry  and  flowerless 
the  season  may  be,  the  Fiore  di  Miele  will  be  in 
bloom. 

I  think  these  private  gardens,  of  immense  size 
and  romantic  beauty,  detached  from  any  house, 
have  a  touch  of  silent  sentiment  about  them  which 
is  very  pleasant.  The  long  walks  under  the  orange 
groves,  and  the  old  white  marble  moss-covered  seats 
with  carved  arms,  secluded  from  observation  by  the 
shower  of  purple  bougainvillaea,  which  falls  in  a  gay 
cascade  over  a  rustic  belvedere,  suggest  stolen  meet- 
ings and  pretty  lovers'  greetings.  The  gay  flower- 
beds, the  deep  green  palms,  and  the  long  rose- walk, 
where  the  bees  hum,  form  a  suitable  setting  to  a 
Sicilian  romance,  and  the  beauty  of  it  all  is  that 
there  are  no  windows  in  a  high  house  to  overlook 
the  prince's  pleasure,  as  he  sees  the  flutter  of  a 
white  dress  hurrying  across  the  flower  garden  to  find 
refuge  under  a  kind  screen  of  roses.  Nor  can 
gardeners  carry  gossip  to  a  parcel  of  idle  house- 


210      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

servants.  The  villa  is  so  large  that  the  carriage 
which  dropped  the  lady  will  take  a  good  half -hour 
before  it  reaches  the  north  gate.  Oh,  what  a  place 
for  lovers  to  wander  on  a  warm  Sicilian  day ! 

The  formal  Italian  garden,  with  its  grey-stone 
basins  of  flowers  and  its  splashing  fountains,  is  a 
little  to  exposed  to  the  sun ;  the  palm  grove,  where 
the  shadows  rest,  is  cooler  and  more  restful.  There 
you  can  sit  in  the  deep  green  and  conjure  up 
romances,  which  could  never  be  so  impossible  as  the 
romances  of  Sicilian  high  life. 

Picture  what  you  like,  the  dramatic  Sicilian  can 
always  go  one  better.  But  be  sure  you  make  the 
princess  pretty,  for  Sicilian  princesses  are  the 
prettiest  in  the  world.  They  are  as  pretty  as  the 
peasants,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal  for  a  real  live 
princess,  for  the  peasants  in  Sicily  all  look  like  un- 
real princesses  in  fairy  tales.  It  is  the  commercial 
classes  in  Sicily  who  are  plain  and  vulgar,  and 
utterly  devoid  of  even  their  national  birthright — 
the  art  of  walking  divinely. 

As  I  think  I  have  mentioned  before,  there  is  no 
real  middle  class  in  Sicily;  there  are  the  proud 
aristocracy  and  the  people.  The  people,  roughly 
speaking,  includes  every  one  who  works  for  his 
living;  this  fact  alone  gives  a  touch  of  mediaeval 
romance  to  society  and  deprives  the  country  of  her 
backbone.  A  backbone  may  be  a  very  useful  thing, 
but  sometimes  it  is  a  little  stiff.  Sicily  is  not  stiff, 
it  is  elegant  and  refined.  Of  course  the  ordinary 
middle-class  English  tourist,  who  spends  a  winter 
there,  sums  Sicily  up  as  immoral ;  does  he  ask  him- 
self what  England  would  be  like  deprived  of  her 
backbone?  Mrs.  Grundy  is  the  patron  saint  of  the 
English  middle  classes,  just  as  San  Giuseppe  is  the 
people's  popular  saint  in   Sicily;   but  then   San 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      211 

Giuseppe  is  a  good  sort !  There  is  no  reason  why 
the  English  middle  classes  should  be  immoral — it 
would  be  wholly  unpardonable  in  them  if  they 
were ;  but  you  have  only  to  come  to  Sicily  to  see 
that  there  is  every  reason  why  the  aristocracy  should 
be  shown  some  leniency  in  that  respect.  An  un- 
natural life  is  asked  of  them  which  leads  to  natural 
sins.  They  adore  intrigue  and  scorn  scandal.  Mrs. 
Grundy  would  die  from  sheer  neglect  in  a  country 
where  no  one  is  shocked  at  their  neighbour's  morals 
and  no  wife  expects  fidelity. 

I  spend  the  greater  part  of  my  time  in  wandering 
about  these  glorious  gardens;  they  are  to  me  the 
most  enchanting  thing  in  the  city,  and  the  surprise 
is  to  find  them  in  a  busy,  noisy  city.  Quite  one  of 
the  most  beautiful,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  too 
much  space  of  latter  years  has  been  given  over  to 
orange  and  lemon  groves,  belongs  to  the  Due 
d'Orleans.  There  is  a  house  in  this  villa — which 
sounds  a  little  confusing  until  you  remember  that 
the  villa  is  not  a  villa,  but  a  garden.  It  is  a  tall 
white  chateau,  with  green  jalousies  and  a  wide  brick 
terrace  in  front  of  it  on  a  level  with  the  front  rooms. 
A  beautiful  view  of  the  extensive  garden  is  obtained 
from  this  charming  terrace,  which  has  a  fascinating 
rose  arbour  at  each  end,  for  the  house  is  on  a  much 
higher  elevation  than  the  garden. 

I  chanced  upon  this  villa  quite  by  accident.  I 
had  never  even  heard  of  it  from  a  cabman,  and  from 
the  street-front  the  tall  chateau  looks  like  a  barrack  ; 
but,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  as  I  was  idling 
along  the  rather  uninteresting  street,  the  door  of 
the  outer  courtyard  stood  open,  and,  as  I  have 
learnt  that  it  is  unwise  to  pass  an  open  door  in  Sicily 
without  looking  to  see  what  is  behind  it,  I  stopped 
and  looked  in.     The  things  of  real  beauty  in  these 


212      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

ancient  cities  mostly  lie  hidden  behind  uninviting 
walls.  A  cold,  narrow,  dark  street,  for  instance, 
may  have  smiling  orange  gardens  on  either  side  of 
it,  blocked  from  your  view  by  Arabo-Norman 
palaces. 

The  lodge-keeper  was  standing  at  the  open  door 
of  the  duke's  garden  as  I  peeped  across  the  thres- 
hold, and  graciously  gave  me  permission  to  enter ; 
the  duke  was  not  in  Palermo,  and  although  the 
garden  was  not  generally  shown  to  visitors  he  would 
make  an  exception  in  my  favour.  These  excep- 
tions are  so  well  acted  in  Sicily  that  you  do  feel 
yourself  a  person  of  distinction. 

He  was  a  fine,  big  fellow,  dressed  in  smart 
hunter's  green,  and  I  felt  that  I  would  be  compelled 
to  give  him  a  fine  big  tip — of  4£d.,  for  that  is  how 
tips  run  in  Palermo — for  granting  me  the  favour. 
I  could  not  help  smiling  to  myself  as  I  thought  of 
how  it  would  be  in  England  if  a  stranger  in  London 
stepped  across  the  threshold  of  a  prince's  home  and 
expected  to  be  allowed  to  wander  about  unattended, 
as  I  did,  for  two  long  hours  in  that  amazing 
Southern  garden.  Nor  had  I  seen  the  half  of  its 
beauties  at  the  end  of  that  time,  for  one  avenue 
alone,  in  the  centre  of  the  garden,  of  pollard  acacias 
was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  and  the  rose-walk, 
gay  with  crimson  ramblers,  led  me  on  and  on, 
holding  out  at  discreet  intervals  inviting  seats  of 
white  carved  marble  sheltered  by  roses  and  Fiore  di 
Miele.  But  I  was  not  tempted.  The  seats  were 
made  for  two,  and  I  was  alone ! 

Then  the  mazes,  which  Sicilians  are  so  fond  of  in 
their  gardens,  often  kept  me  imprisoned  for  an 
endless  time.  These  mazes  contain  hundreds  of 
hidden  jets  of  water,  and  woe  betide  the  lady 
dressed  in  chiffon  who  gets  caught  in  the  trap  !     At 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      213 

every  turn,  as  you  fly  angrily  hither  and  thither, 
vainly  endeavouring  to  get  out  of  the  maze,  fine 
sprays  of  water  cover  you.  It  is  no  use  attempting 
to  avoid  them,  for  the  ground  is  literally  under- 
mined with  fine  pipes,  and  wherever  you  put  your 
foot  you  are  certain  to  start  another  jet  into  action. 
These  mazes  are  very  amusing  when  another  man's 
best  hat  is  being  spoilt,  or  when  a  pretty  girl  flies 
about  like  a  chicken  frightened  by  a  dog,  but 
personally  I  get  tired  of  being  drenched  even  in 
summer.  They  are  so  typically  Sicilian  that  no 
well-laid-out  garden  is  complete  without  its  maze. 

In  the  South  people  are  simple  and  easily  amused. 
I  can  imagine  a  prince's  garden-party  gay  with 
laughter  over  this  childish  sport,  nor  would  they 
look  foolish  in  the  trying  situation,  but  like  happy 
grown-up  children  enjoying  the  fun.  I  can  imagine 
them  all  going  out  in  the  wind  and  playing  at 
having  their  hats  blown  off ;  they  would  scream  and 
laugh  and  rush  about  and  continue  to  look  charm- 
ing. 

When  I  passed  the  porter's  lodge  at  the  end  of 
the  two  hours,  the  fine  fellow  in  green  presented 
me  with  a  Sicilian  bouquet  of  flowers,  which  was 
as  formal  and  trim  in  its  ingenuity  as  their  gardens 
are  natural  and  artistic.  In  return  I  presented 
him  with  fourpence-half penny.  He  was  delighted, 
and  told  me  that  if  I  had  come  two  days  later  I 
could  not  have  seen  the  garden,  for  the  duke  was 
expected.  The  housekeeper  was  busy  preparing 
the  rooms. 

Now  do  not  imagine  that  this  garden  was  a 
dilapidated  old  affair,  where  there  was  nothing 
much  to  steal  or  destroy.  It  was  very  much  the 
reverse.  Although  the  place  was  luxurious  in  its 
vegetation,  it  was  kept  in  perfect  order — the  artistic 
order  of  the  South — and  rare  flowers  tempted  one 


214      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

at  every  turn.  It  was  difficult  not  to  steal.  The 
blue-f  rocked  under-gardeners,  who  were  busy  stack- 
ing the  oranges  in  golden  heaps  beneath  the  groves, 
wished  me  a  smiling  good-day  as  I  passed  them. 
Of  course,  the  patient  mule,  harnessed  to  the  gaily 
painted  cart,  was  waiting  to  carry  the  oranges  to 
the  packing-house.  If  this  beautiful  chateau  was 
ever  converted  into  a  hotel  I  can  imagine  Palermo 
becoming  as  popular  as  Nice ;  at  the  present  time  I 
do  not  think  that  Palermo  has  a  hotel  worthy  of  the 
city. 

Visitors  to  the  South  wish  to  be  immediately 
surrounded  by  the  magic  of  the  South,  and  you 
have  it  here  in  the  duke's  garden,  as  you  have  it  at 
the  Villa  Politi  at  Syracuse.  And  the  fine  broad 
terrace  leading  out  from  the  lofty  rooms,  what  a 
place  to  wander  on  after  meals !  so  dry,  so  graciously 
bathed  in  sunshine,  with  the  dark  green  orange  and 
lemon  groves  lying  down  below  to  tempt  idle  lovers 
to  wander.  In  this  villa,  with  its  moss-grown  paths 
and  wonderful  flowers,  making  a  gay  June  of  cold 
March,  you  are  so  far  removed  from  the  atmosphere 
of  a  city  that  the  shock  is  a  rude  one  when  you  find 
yourself  suddenly  let  out  into  the  street  which  leads 
up  to  the  Royal  Palace.  It  is  true  you  had  gone 
in  from  the  street,  but  you  had  forgotten  that ! 

One  other  feature  of  the  dark  streets  in  old 
Palermo  which  I  have  not  mentioned,  and  which  is 
most  worthy  of  notice,  is  the  fruit-stalls.  The 
arrangement  of  them  is  most  ingenious  and  amus- 
ing ;  a  splendid  mass  of  colour  is  obtained  most 
artistically,  for  the  stalls  are  invariably  placed  under 
little  arches  or  old  doorways,  which  are  thickly 
wreathed  with  branches  of  freshly-gathered  oranges, 
gleaming  in  their  glossy  leaves ;  these  wreaths  are 
again  festooned  with  strings  and  bunches  of  small, 
very  red  tomatoes,  and  snow-white  onions.     On  the 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      215 

stall  beneath  are  immense  lemons  and  pale  shad- 
docks, purple  cauliflowers,  and  curious  vegetables 
of  unknown  names.  Far  back  in  the  dark  archway, 
piled  up  high,  tier  upon  tier,  are  flat  baskets  gaily 
fringed  with  tissue  paper  and  filled  with  strange 
bright  fruits.  Even  the  lettuces  are  most  cleverly 
arranged,  and  so  much  use  is  made  of  the  fine  flam- 
ing carrots  for  decorative  purposes  that  it  seems  a 
pity  to  buy  any  and  so  spoil  the  clever  design. 
Heavy,  blue-rooted  onions,  which  have  been 
allowed  to  sprout  and  throw  up  pale  green  shafts, 
play  an  important  part  in  the  general  effect ;  and  I 
must  not  forget  the  handsome  copper  cauldrons, 
deposited  on  the  ground,  full  of  hot  artichokes, 
boiled  with  a  slice  of  lemon,  ready  for  the  busy 
housewife,  who  comes  along  and  takes  her  choice 
out  of  the  tempting  pot.  She  has  only  to  cross  the 
streets  to  the  public  cookery  to  buy  some  fried  fish, 
steaming  hot  and  very  savoury,  spluttering  out 
boiling  oil  from  a  flat  copper  pan  on  a  vast  white 
porcelain  stove.  Even  if  she  spends  but  a  few  sous 
there,  she  can  buy  a  good  variety  of  Sicilian 
dainties.  A  cuttle  fish,  for  instance,  baked  in 
batter ;  or  the  juicy  legs  of  a  frog ;  or,  better  still, 
a  slice  of  hot  blood-cake.  These  and  one  soldo9 s 
worth  of  new  wine  from  the  humble  trattoria 
(public  house),  which  never  forgets  to  sport  its 
branch  of  olive  over  the  door,  will  make  a  tasty 
meal  for  a  household  which  has  no  fire. 

These  public  cookeries  are  capital  institutions; 
the  food  is  excellent,  and  costs  incredibly  little,  for 
it  is  all,  of  course,  composed  of  the  cheapest  edibles 
imaginable,  things  which  the  poor  of  vulgar  nations 
would  turn  up  their  proud  noses  at,  and  throw  out 
to  the  pigs  with  their  "  beefy  hands."  You  can 
watch  the  preparation  of  the  food  and  the  cooking 
of  it  from  the  street,  for  the  immense  white  stove 


216      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

forms  the  front  wall  of  the  shops.  Even  the  poor- 
est food  is  cleanly  and  delicately  cooked,  in  oil,  no 
doubt,  judging  from  the  smell,  which  is  not  pleasant 
to  English  noses;  but  the  difference  between  hot 
oil  and  hot  lard  is  surely  a  matter  of  taste  and 
prejudice. 

I  hope  I  have  managed  to  convey  to  you  a  little 
of  the  character  of  Palermo ;  it  is  much  more  diffi- 
cult to  give  you  a  word-picture  of  Sicilian  Palermo 
than  Sicilian  Syracuse  or  Girgenti,  for  Palermo  is 
in  touch  with  the  world  and  has  taken  on  worldly 
ways.  Here  you  only  come  across  Sicily  in  vivid 
flashes,  which  are  thrown  out  of  one's  memory 
when  the  time  for  letter-writing  comes  by  the 
every-day  sights  and  sounds  which  one  can  hear  and 
see  in  any  Continental  city.  I  have  tried  so  far 
only  to  give  you  glimpses  of  real  Sicily,  so  please 
don't  expect  me  to  tell  you  in  detail  about  the  end- 
less beautiful  things  which  there  are  in  and  round 
about  this  city.  Guide-book  reading  is,  I  know, 
dull  stuff  for  an  invalid,  and  if  I  were  to  write  you 
descriptions  by  the  score  of  Norman  chapels  and 
Saracen  ruins,  I  should  end,  I  know,  by  cribbing 
from  Baedeker.  If  there  have  been  any  gross  in- 
accuracies in  my  letters  it  is  because  I  carefully 
remembered  your  instruction  :  u  Write  me  long 
letters,  and  as  womanish  ones  as  ever  you  can. 
Tell  me  things  about  the  people  and  all  sorts  of 
every-day  Sicilian  things.  I  don't  care  about  aque- 
ducts and  coliseums.  I  want  to  imagine  I  am 
seeing  Sicily  myself,  and  I  never  do  sights."  That 
is  what  you  said  in  your  first  letter  when  you  begged 
for  this  journal. 

Doris  goes  to  the  Hotel  des  Palmes  to-morrow. 
We  have  only  met  at  early  coffee  and  at  dinner 
at  six  for  the  last  two  days.  Some  friends  of  her 
guardian,  who  are  staying  at  the  Hotel  des  Palmes, 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      217 

having  called  upon  her  and  carried  her  off  with 
them  to  see  the  sights  of  Palermo.  I  was  not 
invited  to  join  the  party. 

Now  that  I  have  no  companion  to  tempt  me  to 
idle  my  time  away  in  these  scented  gardens  of 
Palermo,  I  may,  to  please  you,  take  up  my  manu- 
script again,  for  it  is  extraordinary  how  much 
further  time  goes,  and  how  .the  days  spin  out,  when 
you  have  them  all  to  yourself.  With  Doris  it 
seemed  as  if  we  never  had  more  than  five  minutes 
anywhere  for  pleasant  idling;  when  I  am  alone, 
although  I  may  sit  in  the  morning  thinking  and 
dreaming  in  the  Cappella  Palatina  for  long  hours, 
when  I  come  out  into  the  brilliant  sunshine  again 
it  is  not  yet  midday;  the  workmen  are  still  busy, 
they  have  not  flung  aside  their  tools  on  the  stroke 
of  twelve  to  sleep  below  the  shade  of  the  pepper 
trees  for  one  happy  hour.  And  if  I  go  out  in  the 
afternoon,  I  somehow  find  more  than  abundant 
time  to  see  the  cathedral,  which  was  built  by  an 
Englishman,  named  Walter  of  the  Mill,  in  1169. 
To  me  its  only  beauties  are  its  glorious  Arabo- 
Norman  doorway  and  the  fascinating  white  square 
which  runs  the  whole  length  of  the  rather  low, 
long  building.  On  the  wall  which  encloses  this 
square  there  are  some  pleasing  old  statues  of  card- 
inals and  archbishops  and  other  stately  mitred 
things  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  in  the  square 
itself  there  are  dark  palm-trees,  tall  and  waving, 
which  give  the  place  a  truly  Southern  aspect. 
When  a  priest's  school  of  some  twenty  pale  youths, 
dressed  in  long  purple  tunics  faced  with  scarlet, 
passes  across  the  white  square,  and  lingers  under 
the  shadow  of  a  Moorish  doorway,  or  when  a 
cardinal-bishop,  followed  by  some  dignitaries  of  the 
Church,  steps  out  of  the  ancient  archiepiscopal 
palace,  which  faces  the  piazza,  and  quickly  dis- 


218      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

appears  through  the  west  door  of  the  cathedral, 
which  has  been  opened  for  his  special  benefit,  you 
feel  that  you  are  indeed  in  the  very  South  and  that 
the  most  curiously  Southern  thing  in  Palermo  is  its 
Saracenic  cathedral  built  by  the  Englishman, 
Walter  of  the  Mill. 

Palermo  must  have  been  full  of  Arab  masons 
during  the  Norman  period  in  Sicily ;  you  can  trace 
their  delicate  handiwork  everywhere.  The  five- 
domed  church  of  the  Eremiti,  which  I  have  men- 
tioned already,  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  an 
Oriental  mosque,  and  the  church  of  the  Martorana 
is  another.  After  I  had  examined  all  these  build- 
ings as  well  as  I  cared  to  in  one  afternoon,  I  still 
found  some  time  on  my  hands  before  dinner ;  so  I 
sat  myself  down  in  the  quiet  little  cloisters  of  the 
Eremiti,  and  let  the  custodian  who  looks  after  the 
building  talk  to  me  to  his  heart's  content.  He  is 
old,  and  sells  new  antiques  in  a  little  shop  across  the 
road,  and  is  one  half  villain  and  the  other  half  a  very 
good  fellow  who  loves  his  flowers  and  who  has  made 
the  cloister  of  the  Eremiti  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
spots  in  all  Palermo.  He  watches  his  garden  as 
tenderly  as  a  mother  tends  her  child,  and  for  that 
reason  how  patiently  I  listened  to  his  long-winded 
story  of  an  orange-tree  on  which  there  are  growing 
fourteen  different  kinds  of  fruit — all  of  them  ojf 
course  citrons!  I  did  not  buy  any  of  his  new 
antiques,  but  I  admired  his  garden,  which  pleased 
him  equally  as  well.  The  old  Norman  arches,  with 
their  slender  columns  wreathed  with  pink  roses  and 
hanging  with  pale  wistaria  tassels,  and  the  fine  old 
well-head  in  the  centre  of  the  small  cloister-yard, 
have  been  painted  by  thousands  of  admiring  artists 
of  all  nations,  and  in  every  photographer's  shop  in 
Sicily  you  can  buy  beautiful  pictures  of  the  famous 
cloisters  of  San  Giovanni  degli  Eremiti. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      219 

But  these  luxurious  gardens  and  the  beautiful 
Norman  ruins  are  not  very  satisfying  when  you  sit 
in  them  all  by  yourself.  I  miss  the  magic  laughter 
of  blue  eyes  and  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  which 
have  been  with  me  in  Sicily  until  now. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


Palermo,  Palazzo  Monteleone. 

March  19th. 

Dear  Louise, — 

Alice's  boy  has  arrived.  Yesterday,  while 
we  were  seated  at  lunch  in  the  grand  sala  under  the 
Judgment  of  Paris,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the 
most  sumptuous  part  of  the  ox,  in  Jack  walked, 
just  as  if  he  had  lived  in  Palermo  all  his  life,  and  as 
if  he  owned  it  too,  by  Jove!  The  young  Swiss 
clerk  who  sits  next  to  Doris  at  table  d'hdte,  and 
who  has  been  improving  his  English  at  the  expense 
of  her  good-nature, — he  is  wonderfully  like  a  shaved 
pink  pig  (the  Swiss,  I  mean,  not  Alice's  boy,  who 
is  just  what  Alice's  son  should  be  like), — seemed 
to  think  that  any  one  as  correctly  dressed  and  well 
built  had  a  perfect  right  to  look  as  if  he  owned  the 
whole  world.  Even  a  Swiss  may  look  at  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  how  that  Swiss  did  look  at  Jack! 
Doris  was  in  the  middle  of  explaining  to  him  in 
English  something  about  London  fogs  at  the 
moment  of  Jack's  arrival.  The  word  fog  had 
puzzled  the  shaved  pig  completely. 

"  No,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  do  not  speak  it 
in  French,  if  you  please,  but  smell  it  in  English, 
and  I  will  understand." 

Doris  thought  for  a  moment. 

11  You  can  smell  a  fog  when  it  is  very  bad,"  she 
said  laughingly  to  me.  "  But  what  can  he  mean? 
Ah !  I  know.    He  means  spell ,  of  course." 

■M 


The    cloister   of   the    Eremiti,    one   of    the    most    beautiful    spots    in    all 

Palermo."  [To  face   p.   220. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      221 

"  You  mean  spell,"  she  said,  trying  not. to  smile 
and  speaking  very  distinctly. 

"  Aw  !  yes,  smell,  if  you  please.  I  can  read,  but 
not  speak  zee  English.  If  you  smell  zee  words  I 
will  know  it." 

"Spell,"  Doris  said  again,  slowly  emphasis- 
ing each  letter — "  not  smell." 

"  Excuse  me,  I  do  not  understand  what  zee  word 
s  p  e  1 1  iss.  To  smell  zee  word  is  to  make  it  more 
understanding,  for  I  smell  all  zee  words  when  I 
read." 

"Fog,"  Doris  spelt  the  word  very  slowly. 

"  Foog,"  he  said,  shaking  his  pink  head  slowly. 
"  Not  at  all.  I  have  not  yet  smelt  zee  word  fog  in 
my  English  grammeer " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  there  was  Jack  stand- 
ing right  in  front  of  him,  in  the  most  immaculate 
suit  of  dark  blue  flannel  you  ever  saw.  The  Swiss 
had  on  grey  bicycling  flannels  made  in  Switzerland. 
How  Jack's  suit  ever  accomplished  the  journey  to 
Sicily  I  don't  know,  nor  do  I  know  how  an  English 
youth  who  is  really  quite  undistinguished  in  cast  of 
features  can  manage  to  look  so  distinguished ! 
That  was  the  question  I  asked  myself  as  Jack  stood 
there  amongst  a  room  full  of  Italians,  Germans, 
Swiss,  and  one  or  two  odd  English.  The  salon  and 
the  people,  with  the  exception  of  Doris,  looked  old 
and  dilapidated  and  horribly  shoddy,  but  Jack 
looked  as  if  he  had  just  had  a  bath  before  leaving 
his  chambers  in  St.  James's  Street,  Piccadilly. 

One  other  thought  entered  my  head. 

"  I  wonder  what  Doris  will  think  of  him? — he  is 
the  first  male  person  of  her  own  age  she  has  met 
since  she  came  to  Sicily." 

15 


222      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  I've  dropped  down  from  the  clouds  rather 
suddenly,"  he  began;  "  I  only  arrived  last  night. 
I  thought  I'd  look  you  up  first  thing.  I  didn't 
know  you  lunched  so  early." 

I  shook  hands,  and  I  managed  to  get  out  some- 
thing about  being  delighted  to  see  him,  and  invited 
him  to  have  some  lunch  with  us.  The  Swiss  caught 
his  cold  eyes  after  much  hard  staring,  and  bowed 
elaborately.  Jack  inclined  his  head  a  fractional  part 
of  an  inch.  He  had  in  one  quick  glance  taken  in 
the  ill-made  flannel  suit,  the  shirt  which  was  laced 
up  the  front  with  a  green  silk  cord,  and  the  collar- 
less  neck.  "  Some  Swiss  thing,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. M  How  can  that  nice-looking  English  girl 
talk  to  him?"  I  saw  his  eyes  fall  on  Doris,  so  I 
introduced  him. 

Doris  was  frank  and  charming ;  Jack  was  lofty 
and  apparently  indifferent. 

"  Have  you  been  in  Sicily  long?"  he  asked.  "  I 
can't  find  anything  decent  to  eat.  Do  they  do  you 
well  here?" 

"  Not  very,"  I  said,  noting  the  amused  smile  in 
Doris's  eyes.  "  I  don't  think  the  food  would  suit 
you .    It 's  a  little  goaty . ' ' 

"I'm  staying  at  the  Hotel  de  France,"  he  said, 
casting  a  hurried  glance  round  the  occupants  of  the 
room.  M  I  don't  much  fancy  the  kind  of  people 
you  get  in  these  old  palaces,  somehow;  but  I'm 
going  to  move  to  the  Hotel  des  Palmes  to-morrow. 
I  want  a  south  room,  and  there's  none  vacant  in  the 
Hotel  de  France." 

"  Doris  goes  to  the  Hotel  des  Palmes  to- 
morrow," I  said  to  myself,  "  and  I  am  to  remain 
here." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      223 

The  Swiss,  to  make  room  for  Jack,  had  pushed 
his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  the  lady  of  forty,  who 
wears  orange-blossom  in  her  hair  every  night  at 
dinner,  as  a  protest  against  the  gay  widow  who  has 
dyed  her  hair  orange  gold.  The  shaved  Swiss  does 
not  approve  of  these  two  ladies,  for  he  confided  to 
Doris  that  they  spoke  American,  and  he  wished 
to  learn  English.  Pietro,  the  waiter,  was  so  much 
agitated  by  Jack's  pale  mauve  shirt,  that  he 
promptly  spilt  a  cup  of  black  coffee  over  Doris's 
white  skirt  and  Jack's  brown  boots. 

"  Pietro  is  eager,  but  not  able,"  I  said,  "  and 
his  apologies  are  profuse." 

66  Basta,  bastal"  Jack  said  impatiently,  while 
Pietro  rubbed  the  polish  off  his  boots.  "  I've  only 
been  twenty-four  hours  in  Sicily,  and  I'm  sick  to 
death  already  of  their  fine  excuses  and  eloquent 
apologies.  When  English  servants  do  things  badly, 
they  aren't  allowed  to  make  excuses;  they  must 
take  scoldings." 

"  Oh,  please  don't  begin  comparing  Sicilians 
with  the  English  ! "  Doris  said ;  "  they  are  as  differ- 
ent as  English  and  Hindoos." 

"  That's  just  what  they  are,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"  Now  you've  hit  it.  They  are  natives,  in  the 
Eastern  sense  of  the  word,  playing  at  being  Europ- 
eans. Graceful,  cringing,  apologetic  liars;  every 
man-Jack  of  them  would  let  you  kick  him  if  you 
paid  him  well  enough.  I  hope  you  aren't  one  of 
the  people  who  think  it  is  right  to  admire  every- 
thing and  anything  because  it  is  Italian?"  he  said, 
addressing  Doris. 

M  Oh!  I  don't  know  about  admiring  Italy  and 
Sicily,"  Doris  said  coldly;  "  I  love  them  both. 


224      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Italy  is  like  a  beautiful  child.  When  you  go  away 
from  it,  you  are  afraid  it  will  have  grown  up  and 
have  lost  its  charm  before  you  see  it  again." 

u  I  see  I've  said  the  wrong  thing,"  Jack  said, 
laughing  in  a  natural,  boyish  fashion,  which  made 
you  like  him.  "  But,  you  know,  I  don't  under- 
stand anything  about  pictures,  and  Italy  is  one  vast 
picture-gallery,  isn't  it?  And-  I  hate  statues; 
they're  so  cold." 

"  There  are  few  pictures  in  Sicily  worth  bother- 
ing about,"  I  said  ;  "  and  there  is  only  one  Sicilian 
sculptor  worthy  of  the  name." 

"Oh!  but  I  love  Gagini!"  Doris  said  hastily; 
"  and  I  do  so  want  you  to  come  to  the  museum 
with  me.  The  courtyard  is  the  loveliest  thing  in 
Palermo."  She  looked  at  me  almost  reproachfully. 
"  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Of  course  I'll  come,"  I  said ;  "  and  I,  too,  like 
Gagini's  work  amazingly.  I  think  his  benitier  in 
the  cathedral  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
building.  I  prefer  it  to  the  famous  porphyry 
tombs  of  the  kings.  Porphyry  is  unfortunately 
very  like  chocolate  in  my  eyes,  and  King  Roger's 
tomb  reminds  me  of  Cadbury's  Christmas  advertise- 
ments. The  courtyard  of  the  museum  is  fascinat- 
ing; you  would  never  imagine  it  was  a  museum," 
I  said,  turning  to  Jack,  "  for  the  priceless  old 
statues  and  antiques  of  every  kind  are  arranged  in 
the  most  artistic  manner  round  and  about  the 
columned  courtyard  of  an  old  convent;  bright 
creepers  and  prickly-pears  hang  down  from  the 
Arabesqued  trellis  above  the  arches,  and  a  cool, 
splashing  fountain,  with  one  graceful  antique  figure 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      225 

in  the  centre,  sets  off  the  open  court.  It  is  a 
pleasure,  and  not  a  toil,  spending  a  warm  morning 
in  that  cool  green  museum ;  aloes  and  cacti  and 
showers  of  wistaria  light  up  the  old  grey  stones. 
Of  course,  it  is  not  every  climate  which  will  allow 
of  an  open-air  museum." 

"  You  don't  ■  do  '  the  museums  in  Palermo," 
Doris  said;  "  you  just  sit  in  the  most  beautiful 
convent-cloisters,  as  I  call  them,  and  let  your  eyes 
linger  on  rare  and  curious  things  of  all  ages.  The 
flowers  and  the  butterflies  and  the  sunshine  are  all 
a  part  of  it.  It's  not  a  bit  museumic  or  glass-casey. 
I  ate  four  oranges  there  this  morning  while  I  was 
looking  at  Gagini's  Madonna  and  studying  all  sorts 
of  things  that  I  don't  remember  now." 

"  That's  just  the  worst  of  it,"  Jack  said.  "  I 
never  do  remember  what's  inside  a  museum  once  I 
get  out  of  it." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  Doris  said;  "  but  being  there 
must  do  you  good.  The  very  fact  of  it  making  you 
feel  a  fool  when  you  are  in  it  must  have  a  beneficial 
effect,  I  think." 

Jack  laughed. 

"  I'm  sure  you  needn't  feel  a  fool,"  he  said. 
"  But  I'm  blessed  if  I  know  who  Gagini  is  or  any- 
thing about  him." 

"  I  didn't  till  I  came  to  Palermo,"  Doris  said; 
"  nobody  does.  But  they  are  so  proud  of  him  here, 
you  will  soon  know.  Gagini  is  Sicily's  great 
sculptor." 

"  May  I  come  to  the  museum  and  see  his 
Madonna  with  you?"  he  asked.  M  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  myself  here." 


226      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  Of  course  you  may,"  I  said.  "  Let's  go  after 
lunch.     The  museum-convent  is  just  next  door." 

So  we  went  to  the  museum,  and  Doris  showed 
Jack  the  beautiful  Madonna,  which  is  one  of  the 
few  painted  marble  statues  I  ever  really  liked,  and 
a  good  many  other  things  as  well.  They  seem 
to  understand  each  other  amazingly  well,  although 
Doris  is  all  enthusiasm  and  simplicity,  while  Jack 
never  allows  himself  to  unbend  enough  for  actual 
admiration.  "  Not  bad,"  is  the  highest  praise  I 
have  heard  him  bestow  upon  ancient  well-heads, 
Roman  mosaic  pavements,  or  the  famous  metopes 
of  Selinunte ;  but  Doris  seems  to  think  it  is  quite 
enough,  and  youth  needs  no  understanding.  Youth 
is  a  law  unto  itself. 

If  I  did  not  admire  these  things  more  than  Jack 
does,  or  did  not  help  her  to  understand  them  a  little 
bit,  my  word !  I'd  catch  it.  But  to-day  Doris  was 
helping  Jack  to  understand  things,  and  he  didn't 
care  two  straws  about  them.  But  looking  at 
ancient  statues  and  Renaissance  doorways  was  a 
fine  excuse  for  lingering  in  the  company  of  a  charm- 
ing girl,  under  the  shade  of  a  curtain  of  wistaria 
blossoms  falling  over  the  colonnaded  cortile  and 
within  the  sound  of  trickling  water. 

Jack  lit  a  cigarette,  and  sat  himself  down  upon  a 
heap  of  old  cannon-balls  overgrown  with  ivy  and 
moss. 

"  This  place  is  good  enough  for  me,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  want  to  see  the  things  in  the  museum 
rooms;  if  I  remember  the  half  of  what's  in  the 
courtyard,  I'll  do  very  well.  By  the  way,  are  there 
any  chocolates  to  be  had  in  a  town  like  this? 
Wouldn't  you  like  some?  I  suppose  you  don't 
smoke?" 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      227 

"  No,  I  don't  smoke,"  Doris  said.  "  But  I  do 
eat  chocolates ;  and  after  we  have  sat  here  long 
enough,  let  us  go  and  have  some  black  coffee  and 
cakes  at  Guli's — a  lovely  confectioner's  !  It  is  very 
amusing  to  go  there  at  about  eleven  in  the  morn- 
ings, and  see  all  the  smart  young  men  come  to 
drink  sweet  syrup  and  eat  fresh  strawberry  short- 
cakes. They  are  in  season  just  now,  and  so  good ; 
but  Caflisch  has  the  best  chocolates.  What 
wouldn't  we  have  given  for  one  of  those  shops  in 
Syracuse!" 

"  And  my  poor  sweets  are  still  on  the  way  from 
England,"  I  thought.  M  They  would  have  been 
appreciated  in  Syracuse,  but  here " 

"  I'm  off  now,"  J^ick  said,  getting  up  quickly. 
"  Please  let's  go  to  Cat-fish,  or  whatever  you  called 
this  '  confectioner,' — the  one  where  you  get  the 
coffee  and  cakes." 

Doris  smiled  a  willing  acceptance. 

"  Won't  you  come  too?"  she  said,  turning  to 
me. 

I  had  assumed  to  be  vastly  interested  for  the 
moment  in  the  slender  column  entwined  with  ivy, 
which  was  erected  in  1737  in  the  Piazza  de'  Vesperi, 
in  memory  of  the  French  who  were  buried  there 
after  the  famous  massacre  of  the  Sicilian  Vespers, 
which  began  on  the  evening  of  March  31st,  1282. 
While  this  bloody  massacre  of  all  the  French  in 
Palermo  was  taking  place,  the  bells  of  the  churches 
were  tolled,  which  gave  the  massacre  the  pictur- 
esque name  of  the  Sicilian  Vespers. 

"  Have  you  seen  enough  of  the  museum 
already?"  I  said,  turning  to  Jack.  "  There  are 
some  magnificent  things  in  the  inner  courtyard, 
worthy  of  a  few  minutes  of  your  time." 


228      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  I  can  do  the  museum  any  time,"  he  said ;  "  but 
you  can't  always  be  sure  of  having  the  right  appetite 
on  for  cakes  and  coffee." 

And  Doris  actually  agreed  with  him,  although 
I  know  her  appetite  for  such  things  has  never  failed 
her.  But  what  is  born  of  a  hen  will  scrape,  and 
Doris  is  a  true  woman ;  and  who  could  blame  her 
for  being  willing  to  suit  her  tastes  to  the  pleasure  of 
so  attractive  a  companion  ? 

Jack  has  Alice's  old  trick  of  winning  forgiveness 
with  a  smile :  all  his  assumed  indifference,  his 
national  conceit  and  youthful  egotism  vanish,  and 
you  see  right  into  the  heart  of  a  generous,  manly 
nature  when  his  eyes  soften  with  laughter  and  the 
stern  young  face  breaks  into  smiles.  Any  girl 
would  be  glad  enough  to  keep  that  light  in  his  eyes 
and  to  soften  the  expression  on  his  mouth  into 
tenderness. 

"  Ah!"  I  thought;  "  if  youth  knew  and  age 
could!" 

As  we  passed  through  the  town  almost  every 
other  person  we  met  was  carrying  a  parcel  wrapped 
up  in  white  paper  and  tied  with  string  of  the 
national  colours — red,  white,  and  green.  There 
was  an  air  of  general  festivity  in  the  streets,  and 
almost  all  the  shops  were  closed.  Two  cabs  dashed 
past  with  a  great  cracking  of  whips.  In  one  was 
seated  a  very,  very  old  woman  with  an  enormous 
cake  on  her  lap, — a  regular  Sicilian  cake,  covered 
with  white  sugar  and  candied  fruits,  and  elaborately 
trimmed  with  chocolate  pipings.  Sicilian  cakes  are 
even  richer  and  more  elaborate  than  German  ones, 
and  a  spoon  is  quite  necessary  when  eating  one,  for 
they  are  soft  and  moist  with  rum  and  custard.  The 
other    cab   was    crowded    with    little    children, — 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      229 

crowded  as  only  a  Sicilian  cab  can  be  crowded, — 
and  each  happy  child  was  eating  a  cake  of  many 
colours.  It  was  soon  very  apparent  that  all  the 
many  parcels  tied  up  in  white  paper  contained  cakes 
of  various  descriptions,  for  the  only  shops  open  were 
the  confectioners'  and  small  cafes,  where  cakes  and 
wine  "  sell  themselves."  There  is  a  saying  in 
Sicily  that  three  geese  and  three  women  make  a 
market :  Tre  ocche  e  tre  donne  fanno  un  mercato. 
I'm  quite  certain  that  two  chairs  and  a  table  make 
a  cafe. 

M  It  seems  to  me  we  have  chosen  the  right  day 
to  come  and  eat  cakes,"  Jack  said,  as  a  small  boy, 
carrying  a  very  large  cake,  much  taller  than  himself, 
on  a  beaten  brass  tray,  pushed  us  off  the  side- walk, 
M  for  every  one  is  either  eating  cakes  or  carrying 
cakes.  I  wonder  if  there  is  going  to  be  a  cake 
procession  anywhere?  I  never  saw  anything  quite 
so  mad,  or  such  elaborate  cakes.  Some  of  them 
must  have  cost  a  lot  of  money." 

Doris  had  taken  a  little  Italian  calendar  from  her 
pocket  and  was  studying  it. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  all  means,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. "  This  is  the  feast  of  San  Giuseppe,  the 
people's  friend.  San  Giuseppe  cared  for  the  poor, 
and  fed  and  looked  after  the  little  children ;  these 
people  are  all  carrying  presents  to  their  poor  friends 
in  memory  of  San  Giuseppe." 

M  Good  old  Giuseppe!"  Jack  said.  "  Now,  he 
was  a  decent  sort  of  a  saint.  No  lofty  ideas  of 
fasting  and  resisting  the  good  things  of  this  life." 

"  San  Pasquale  was  another  '  good  sort,'  as  you 
would  call  him,"  Doris  said  laughingly.  "  He  is 
the  patron  saint  of  women,  for  he  helps  poor  home- 
less girls  to  find  good  husbands.  On  the  feast  of 
San  Pasquale  all  the  hard-working  girls  pray  that 


280      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

he  will  send  them  as  good  and  kind  a  man  as  he  was 
himself.  At  some  of  the  institutions  for  motherless 
girls,  young  men  who  wish  wives  are  allowed  to  go 
there  on  the  feast  of  San  Pasquale  and  choose  them- 
selves wives.  The  nuns  are  always  willing  to  give 
the  girls  a  good  character,  and  they  are  sure  to 
have  been  well  trained  and  carefully  instructed  in 
the  art  of  housekeeping  by  these  u  little  sisters  of 
the  poor."  They  make  their  husbands  excellent 
wives,  and  San  Pasquale  often  sends  the  girls  as 
good  a  husband  as  an  Italian  or  Sicilian  wife  ever 
expects.  They  are  willing  to  take  their  chance, 
for  they  say  to  themselves,  '  I  matrimoni  sono  non 
come  si  fanno,  ma  comme  riescono,'  which  literally 
means,  '  Marriages  are  not  as  they  are  made,  but 
as  they  turn  out.'  " 

When  we  arrived  at  Guli's,  the  shop  was  quite 
full;  but  it  was  filled,  not  with  the  fashionable 
crowd  who  usually  frequent  it  at  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  but 
with  large  families  of  poor  people  dressed  in  their 
holiday  best.  The  shawls  on  some  of  the  young 
married  women  were  very  fine ;  I  think  they  must 
be  like  the  Cashmere  shawls  which  Queen  Victoria 
presented  to  each  of  her  ladies-in-waiting  on  the 
occasion  of  their  marriage.  These  old  Sicilian 
shawls  are  much  sought  after  nowadays  by  artists, 
and  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  find  one  for  sale. 
Some  years  ago  a  cunning  dealer  in  artists'  proper- 
ties bought  up  every  one  that  he  could  lay  his  hands 
upon,  and  gave  the  people  in  exchange  gaudy  new 
Paisley  shawls  of  the  vilest  dyes  and  designs.  If 
you  go  into  a  draper's  shop  now  in  Syracuse  or 
Palermo  and  ask  to  see  some  Sicilian  coloured 
shawls,  you  are  shown  things  made  in  Paisley  or 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      231 

Milan,  for  the  people,  after  they  had  once  seen  the 
cheap,  gaudy,  foreign  shawls,  no  longer  were 
willing  to  save  up  their  scarce  sous  to  buy  the 
genuine  Sicilian  one,  which  was  costly  as  well  as 
exquisitely  beautiful.  The  elaborate  designs  are, 
as  a  rule,  woven  on  a  white  or  dull-orange  back- 
ground. One  of  these  shawls  draped  over  the  head 
of  a  graceful  Sicilian  woman,  and  flowing  down  to 
the  hem  of  her  black  skirt,  makes  a  wonderful  note 
of  colour  in  a  dark  street. 

As  there  was  no  chance  of  our  being  served  with 
a  cup  of  coffee,  or  of  getting  near  enough  to  the 
counter  to  buy  any  cakes,  we  determined  to  give  it 
up,  and  take  a  drive  out  to  the  Favorita. 

The  Favorita  is  a  mad-looking  Chinese  chateau, 
which  was  built  in  the  time  of  the  Bourbons,  by 
Ferdinand  the  Fourth,  I  think,  under  the  shadow 
of  Monte  Pellegrino. 

For  a  royal  chateau  it  is  as  poor  and  shoddy  a 
thing  as  ever  you  saw,  but  its  situation  is  simply 
perfect.  The  mountain  towers  up  above  the  lovely 
grounds,  which  are  laid  out  very  pleasantly  for 
driving  in,  though  they  are  not  equal  to  the  Pare 
d' Orleans  in  vegetation.  On  our  way  there  we 
passed  some  very  handsome  new  houses,  belonging 
to  the  aristocracy  of  Palermo,  who  no  longer  live 
in  the  city  in  their  dark  Spanish  palaces ;  in  fact, 
to-day  every  one  but  a  prince  lives  in  a  palace  in 
Sicily.  The  Favorita  is  very  charming,  but  not  to 
be  compared  to  many  of  the  villas  which  have  not 
so  bewitching  a  name. 

We  parted  with  Jack  just  in  time  for  dinner, 
which  was  an  unusually  good  one  to-night,  in 
honour  of  San  Giuseppe.  Pietro  was  very  proud 
of  the  elaborate  cake,  which  was  served  instead  of 
pudding;  and  our  table,  to  please  Doris,  was 
literally  covered  with  scarlet  adonis.     This  little 


232      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

feathery-leafed,  bright-eyed  flower,  is  called  San 
Giuseppe's  flower,  because  it  is  always  in  full  bloom 
all  over  the  country  on  his  feast-day,  and,  as  I  have 
often  remarked  before,  when  a  flower  blooms  in 
Sicily  it  knows  how  to  bloom.  There  are  no  half 
measures  with  Southern  vegetation,  as  there  are 
none  with  the  people.  They  both  go  the  "  whole 
hog,"  to  use  the  vulgar  expression. 

So  out  at  the  Favorita  to-day  the  sunny  world 
was  all  scarlet  adonis;  under  the  orange-trees  we 
walked  ankle-deep  in  San  Giuseppe's  dear  little  red 
flower,  and  in  the  distant  landscape  there  was  a 
carpet  of  adonis  spread  beneath  the  bluest  of  skies. 
No  painter  could  exaggerate  the  colour  of  the  South 
on  a  day  like  this,  with  its  sparkling  atmosphere, 
its  azure  blue  sky  and  sea,  its  scarlet  adonis,  and  its 
soft  blue-greens  of  aloe  and  agave,  showing  like 
gigantic  flowers  against  the  deep  greens  of  the  tall 
palms  and  New  Zealand  fern-trees.  And  over  it 
all  there  was  the  great  pink  crown  of  Pellegrino, 
with  its  white  zigzag  pilgrims'  road  winding  up  and 
up  its  precipitous  heights  until  it  reached  the  little 
dark  grotto  of  the  girl-saint.  I  should  like  to  be  in 
Palermo  on  the  festival  of  St.  Rosalia,  which  falls 
on  July  15th.  At  dinner  Pietro  waxed  eloquent 
over  the  magnificence  of  the  procession  and  the 
grand  triumphal  car  of  St.  Rosalia.  Horse-races, 
regattas  and  illuminations  are  kept  up  at  a  high 
pitch  during  the  holiday  week.  It  is  curious  that 
the  saints'  days  of  the  Church  are  now  the  race-days 
of  the  people.  The  feast  of  the  Annunciation  is 
oddly  chosen  for  the  first  grand  race-meeting  of  the 
season.  It  is  on  the  25th  of  this  month,  so  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it,  even  if  I  don't  go  to  see  it, 
for  one  can  be  so  much  more  vivid  when  one  has  not 
actually  seen  things ;  facts  hinder  realism.     To  be 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      233 

realistic  you  must  write  from  your  own  armchair, 
and  make  your  readers  go  to  see  the  things  you 
describe. 

When  I  said  good-night  to  Doris  I  was  tempted 
to  ask  her  what  she  thought  of  Jack ;  but  to  get 
the  truth  from  a  woman  you  should  never  ask  for 
it,  so  I  refrained. 

M  I  am  rather  sorry  to  leave  this — this  Judgment 
of  Paris,"  she  said,  looking  up  to  the  vaulted  and 
grandly  painted  ceiling  of  the  vast  salon.  u  To- 
morrow I  go  to  the  Hotel  des  Palmes,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  I  said  a  little  coldly.  "  But  it 
was  your  own  wish.  I  would  have  gone  there  and 
left  you  here,  but  you  wished  to  go." 

"  I  sha'n't  feel  the  least  bit  as  if  I  was  in  Sicily," 
she  said ;  "  I  know  I  sha'n't.  My  friends  there  go 
about  with  a  horrid  German  dragoman;  we  do 
about  six  things  every  morning,  and  pay  calls  all 
the  afternoon." 

"  Jack  will  be  there,"  I  said;  "  he  will  amuse 
you.  He  won't  go  to  see  things  or  pay  calls,  I'll 
be  bound." 

"  I  want  to  see  things,"  she  said  regretfully; 
"  but  not  in  that  way.  Oh,  I  wish  we  were  back 
in  Syracuse !"  There  was  a  little  worried  sigh. 

"  You  won't  to-morrow,"  I  said.  "  And  it  will 
do  you  a  world  of  good  to  have  some  of  your  own 
age  to  talk  to — and  to " 

"  I  thought  you  said  a  woman  could  make  a  man 
any  age  she  liked.  Boys  are  horrid !  they  are 
always  old." 

"  Good-night,"  I  said;  and  while  her  hand 
rested  in  mine  I  looked  into  her  eyes.  They  were 
little  blue  wells  of  sadness.  "  And  remember, 
dear,  that  a  tender  woman  can  always  make  a  fool 
of  an  old  man." 


234      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  Good-night,"  she  answered,  withdrawing  her 
hand;  and  as  she  vanished  down  the  long  dark 
passage  she  said  laughingly  over  her  shoulder  :  "  It 
entirely  depends  what  being  an  old  fool  means, 
don't  you  think?" 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


Palermo, 

March  26th>  1900. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

In  this  old  palace  which  once  belonged  to  the 
proud  ducal  family  of  Pignatelli-Cortez,  descend- 
ants of  the  great  Cortez,  there  are  many  paying 
guests.  In  Sicily  "  Not  all  those  who  go  to  church 
say  their  prayers  "  (Non  tutti  quelli  che  vanno  in 
chiesa  fanno  orazione),  neither  are  all  who  live  in 
palaces  princes.  Indeed,  to  live  in  a  palace 
generally  signifies  that  you  are  not  a  prince,  but  an 
innkeeper,  or  one  of  his  guests.  There  is  a  draw- 
back to  this  making  of  inns  out  of  palaces  which  is 
not  at  first  obvious,  but  when  you  reflect  that  only 
one  side  of  any  square  courtyard  can  face  the  south, 
it  is  obvious  that  there  are  three  sides  which  cannot 
get  the  morning  sun,  and,  as  palace  dimensions 
are  vast,  there  are  not  many  rooms  on  the  first 
floor  facing  the  south.  After  many  years  of  inn- 
keeping,  the  Sicilian  landlord  has  learnt  that  even 
Germans  will  pay  a  few  francs  more  per  week  to 
purchase  the  precious  sun.  This  being  the  case, 
I  am  writing  to  you  in  the  smallest  of  rooms,  which 
is  very  apparently  the  third  portion  of  an  original 
large  one.  With  native  ingenuity  the  landlord  has 
made  three  small  rooms  out  of  every  large  one  on 
the  south  side  of  the  courtyard;  the  walls  which 

divide  the  paying  guests  are  scarcely  in  keeping  in 

235 


236      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

point  of  thickness  with  the  original  palace  walls, 
but  this  does  not  signify  so  much  as  the  fact  that 
the  elaborately  painted  hunting-scene  on  the  ceiling 
has  also  been  cut  into  three  portions  and  each  guest 
has  got  a  piece.  On  my  portion  of  the  ceiling  I 
have  the  head  and  fore-legs  of  a  fine  white  horse, 
also  a  few  trees,  a  distant  castle,  and  a  tempting 
glimpse  of  the  short  velvet  tunic  and  pointed  hose 
of  a  youthful  page.  The  middle  portion  of  the 
white  horse  I  suppose  I  shall  never  see,  for  the  room 
next  to  mine  is  occupied  by  the  lady  who  wears 
orange-blossom  in  her  faded  hair ;  but  I  have  seen 
the  beast's  tail  and  the  falcon-bearers,  for  the  third 
room  is  the  property  of  an  old  Englishman  who  has 
lived  in  this  palace  for  more  years  than  he  cares  to 
admit.  He  is  in  a  chronic  state  of  packing  up  his 
belongings  to  go  back  to  England.  He  is  only 
here  for  his  health,  so  he  says ;  the  rest  of  the  palace 
paying  guests  seem  to  think  that  there  may  be  other 
reasons  which  prevent  him  from  returning  to  his 
native  land. 

He  asked  Doris,  a  day  or  so  after  our  arrival  here, 
to  help  him  to  choose  some  Oriental  draperies  from 
two  Singalese  traders,  who  bring  their  trashy  stock 
into  the  big  salon  and  spread  the  things  about  the 
room  every  day  at  lunch  and  never  sell  anything. 
Doris  was  good-naturedly  consenting  to  help  him  in 
his  choice,  for  he  had,  he  said,  "  the  worst  taste  in 
the  world,  and  would  never  trust  himself  to  choose 
anything  for  any  one,  and  as  these  things  were  for 
his  sister  who  was  getting  up  a  bazaar  for  the  war 
fund  in  England  he  would  be  very  grateful  for 
Doris's  advice." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      237 

"  Don't  you  give  it,"  the  widow  with  the 
orange-coloured  hair  whispered  to  Doris.  M  He 
gets  that  off  every  fresh  woman  under  fifty  who 
comes  here,  and  there  aren't  many.  He  asked  me 
to  choose  these  things  for  him  six  months  before 
the  war  broke  out,  and  that  bazaar  hasn't  come  off 
yet.  He'll  ask  you  to  look  at  the  painted  roof  in 
his  room  if  you  do.     He's  a  horrid  old  man." 

But  Doris,  with  her  gentle  nature,  could  not 
refuse  the  polite  request,  so  the  Oriental  rubbish 
was  duly  chosen,  but  not  paid  for.  I  have  seen 
two  people  choose  the  same  things  for  him  since, 
but  the  draperies  are  still  in  the  possession  of  the 
Singalese,  who  have  become  indifferent  in  the 
matter. 

After  choosing  the  vulgar  Eastern  things,  he  at 
once  asked  Doris  if  she  would  care  to  see  the  most 
extraordinary  painting  on  the  roof  of  his  room. 
She  was  on  the  point  of  refusing  when  I  said, 
"  Yes,  do,  for  I  will  accompany  you.  I  want  to 
see  the  tail  end  of  the  hunting-scene.  I  have 
studied  the  first  part  of  it  for  hours  every  morning 
in  bed,  and  I  feel  curious  to  see  how  it  ends." 

M  If  it  is  anything  like  the  Judgment  of  Paris," 
she  said  hesitatingly,  "  I  think  I'd  better  not." 

"  No,  it's  not  a  bit,"  I  said.  "  It  is  a  painting 
after  the  school  of  Pinturicchio,  who  loved  gay 
doublets  and  hose ;  the  Judgment  of  Paris  is  after 
the  school  of  Rubens — only  more  so.  Rubens  did 
not  love  hose  or  doublets." 

This  Judgment  of  Paris,  which  covers  the  whole 
of  the  vaulted  roof  of  the  vast  salon  in  which  the 
guests  feed,  is,  I  confess,  rather  an  alarming 
picture.  The  nude  figures  of  the  anxious  Graces 
are  quite  life-size  and  very  generously  developed. 

16 


238      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

They  are,  however,  so  high  overhead  that  to  be 
really  shocked  the  pale  spinsters  in  their  neat  black 
evening  gowns  would  find  it  necessary  to  lie  down 
on  their  backs  on  the  floor ;  and  this  I  am  sure  they 
will  never  do,  for  the  floor  is  tiled  and  very  cold. 

In  the  large  courtyard  of  the  palace  there  is  a 
stone  fountain  raised  from  the  ground  by  a  flight  of 
red  marble  steps.  A  white  marble  cupid  gushes 
out  water  into  the  basin  from  his  mouth.  Stand- 
ing by  the  fountain  there  is  at  this  moment  an  old 
woman  with  a  black  Sicilian  shawl  drawn  closely 
over  her  head.  She  is  washing  some  poor  garments 
in  a  fine  beaten-brass  basin  which  I  mean  to  try  to 
purchase,  so  I  will  watch  what  part  of  the  palace 
bassi  she  goes  into.  The  palace  only  goes  round 
three  sides  of  this  outer  courtyard,  for  on  the  oppo- 
site side  to  the  south  wing  there  is  a  white-tiled 
terrace  which  is  high  enough  to  be  on  a  level  with 
the  salon  floor.  Its  walls  are  suitably  ornamented 
with  little  pitchers,  which  are  the  meaning  of  the 
word  Pignatelli,  and  the  crest  of  the  family  of 
Cortez.  These  little  pitchers  of  terra-cotta  are 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  Southern  plants,  such  as  small 
yuccas  and  flaming  lilies.  Behind  this  broad  white- 
tiled  terrace  there  is  an  ancient  orange-garden 
which  is  dominated  by  two  immense  stone-pines. 
From  my  window  these  two  softly  spreading  trees 
seem  to  grow  right  out  of  the  white  terrace,  and  the 
mossy  branches  cast  deep  shadows  on  the  sunny 
scene.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  romantic  and  delight- 
ful the  effect  is,  for  the  palace  is  white  and  very  tall, 
with  pale  green  shutters,  and  the  terrace  is  white, 
and  so  is  the  splashing  fountain ;  the  flaming  lily  is 
the  only  note  of  colour.  The  two  dark  sentinels 
of  pines  stretch  out  their  long   arms   from   our 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      239 

orange-garden,  and  soften  and  break  the  dazzling 
south. 

The  general  effect  from  my  window  is  dark  green, 
almost  to  blackness,  dazzling  white,  and  cloudless 
blue ;  the  woman  in  her  black  frock,  busy  with  the 
brass  dish,  seems  to  be  the  one  touch  of  human 
nature  in  the  scene,  which  is  always  right  in  Sicily. 

One  of  the  many  trades,  or  professions,  I  should 
say,  which  is  carried  on  in  the  bassi  of  the  palace  is 
a  fencing-school.  I  can  hear  from  my  bedroom 
window  from  early  morning  until  late  at  night,  first 
the  cat-like  spring,  with  the  dull  thud,  thud  on  the 
floor,  and  then  the  rapid  sparring  and  clashing  of 
the  rapiers.  All  sorts  and  conditions  of  people 
come  to  this  fencing-school :  smart  officers  in  pale- 
blue  cloaks,  and  dandies  wearing  American  ties  and 
Monte  Carlo  hats ;  but  the  pupil  I  take  most  inter- 
est in  is  a  young  girl  who  steps  out  of  a  big  carriage, 
closely  veiled  and  jealously  enveloped  in  a  black 
cloak.  When  her  lesson  is  going  on  the  green 
jalousies  are  closed,  and  no  other  pupils  are  ad- 
mitted; but  I  can  picture  to  myself  the  slender 
figure  in  the  short  fencing-skirt  standing  erect  and 
alert,  the  first  quick  movement  forward,  the  lighter 
thud,  thud  on  the  floor,  the  exciting  clashing  of  the 
steel,  then  silence  again. 

In  the  large  hall  on  the  ground-floor,  below  the 
white  terrace,  there  is  an  Italian  kindergarten, 
which  used  to  interest  Doris  immensely,  for  the 
baby-scholars  arrive  in  roomy  omnibuses,  built  for 
the  purpose,  as  early  as  half-past  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  they  do  not  go  home  until  after 
four  o'clock  in  the  evening.  A  man-servant  or  a 
nurse  always  brings  each  child  to  school,  but  they 
do  not  all  return  for  them  in  the  evening.     This 


240      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

leads  me  to  suppose  that  they  are  not  sent  for  the 
safe-conduct  of  the  child,  but  to  see  that  it  actually 
goes  to  school.  It  is  a  very  happy  school,  I  think, 
for  I  hear  plenty  of  laughter  and  singing,  and  the 
young  girls  who  teach  in  it  are  pretty,  gentle- 
looking  creatures.  The  wee  babies,  who  are  cer- 
tainly beginning  their  education  very  early,  have 
their  first  meal  of  the  day  at  eleven,  which  they 
bring  with  them  in  little  baskets.  Doris  says  this 
is  very  bad  for  little  children ;  they  should  have  a 
hot  milky  mid-day  meal,  and  a  breakfast  at  eight ; 
but  these  nut-brown  things  seem  to  grow  up  into 
very  pretty  women,  in  spite  of  the  absence  of  break- 
fast, and  lunches  ojf  salad  and  cold  meat.  It  is 
amusing  to  see  them  all  bundling  into  the  omnibus 
at  four  o'clock,  so  eager  to  get  home.  The  driver 
goes  from  house  to  house,  like  a  parcels  postman, 
dropping  each  weary  little  child,  with  an  empty 
basket,  at  their  different  doors;  like  all  Sicilians, 
he  has  an  abundant  patience  with  children.  In  the 
inner  courtyard  of  the  palace  there  are  a  book- 
binder, a  working  goldsmith,  a  shoemaker,  and  a 
happy  hatter,  who  scrubs  and  remodels  cheap  straw 
hats  for  ten  cents,  and  a  tailor  body  who  mends  old 
clothes,  besides  a  carriage-builder  who  repairs  old 
cabs  with  glue  and  tacks. 

So,  you  see,  there  is  a  remnant  of  the  patriarchal 
system  still  within  the  high  walls  of  the  palace  of  the 
Pignatelli-Cortez.  All  this  is  very  Sicilian,  and  so 
is  the  exterior  of  the  vast  old  palace,  with  its 
remnants  of  departed  splendour.  It  is  managed — 
or,  rather,  it  manages  itself — as  no  other  pension- 
hotel  ever  was  managed  before  or  ever  will  be  again  : 
two  little  men- waiters,  who  have  the  instinctive 
sense  of  a  woman  and  the  physical  endurance  of  a 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      241 

Samson,  and  two  very  old  women,  who  have  been 
past  work  for  many  years,  run  the  entire  concern. 
The  young  padrone  and  his  pretty  wife  live  in  a 
wing  of  the  palace,  entirely  shut  off  from  their 
guests.  They  have  a  pretty  way  of  greeting  you 
on  your  arrival,  and  of  speeding  the  parting  guest 
when  the  bill  is  paid,  but  in  the  interval — be  it  a 
week  or  a  year — they  are  never  within  sight. 
Domestic  work  knows  no  distinction  of  sex  in 
Sicily,  so  the  old  women  are  merely  the  drudges  of 
the  youthful  waiters,  who  look  after  your  entire 
wants,  at  least  as  entirely  as  you  can  expect  for 
seven  francs  a  day  including  wine.  Pietro  is  really 
unique.  I  am  afraid  he  must  be  a  knave,  for  he  is 
certainly  no  fool,  and  any  man-servant  is  neces- 
sarily either  the  one  or  the  other.  A  knave  makes 
you  comfortable  and  allows  no  one  to  cheat  you  but 
himself ;  a  fool  makes  you  uncomfortable  and  allows 
every  one  to  rob  you  while  he  himself  is  honest. 
In  Sicily  you  live  and  learn ;  a  little  experience 
teaches  you  that  therd  are  more  reasons  than  one 
why  the  ancients  built  their  houses  so  high  and 
made  their  streets  so  narrow.  To  exclude  the  sun 
was  not  the  only  reason ;  indeed,  one  often  wonders 
if  a  little  more  warmth  from  the  sun  in  the  winter 
would  not  make  up  for  the  heat  endured  in  August 
if  the  streets  were  a  little  wider ;  they  are  so  bitterly 
cold  all  the  winter.  But  the  other  enemy  these 
narrow  streets  were  built  to  keep  out,  is  the  sirocco. 
Last  night  it  blew  with  all  the  abandonment  of  a 
Southern  fury.  Plants  were  uprooted  in  the  old 
orange-garden  and  hurled  into  the  high  terraces. 
Trees  were  blown  over  like  ninepins,  and  big 
windows   completely   shattered.     All   night   long 


242      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

there  was  a  noise  of  glass  falling  and  of  doors  being 
blown  in ;  the  poor  old  palace  seemed  to  be  devast- 
ated from  the  roof  to  basso.  I  was  thankful  that 
in  a  Sicilian  palace  there  are  no  chimney-pots,  and 
that  the  original  walls  of  the  building  are  very 
strong. 

While  the  wind  lasts  the  air  is  hot  and  enervating, 
and  the  noise  is  hopelessly  bewildering.  It  is  the 
sort  of  wind  that  makes  you  lose  your  head.  Every 
one  in  the  palace  was  flying  wildly  about,  in  vain 
endeavours  to  keep  old  windows  closed,  or  shut 
rebellious  doors.  For  twelve  hours,  and  more,  this 
horrible  storm  made  the  gentle  life  of  Sicily  a 
hideous  pantomime. 

It  is  up  in  the  high  heavens  that  the  sirocco  howls 
and  roars ;  you  can  almost  see  it  curling  and  writh- 
ing in  the  leaden  sky.  It  has  more  evil  in  its 
character  than  any  other  wind  I  have  experienced ; 
the  blizzards  of  Canada  are  bad  enough,  and  so  is  the 
mistral  of  the  Riviera,  but  safe  under  the  bedclothes 
you  can  get  away  from  them  both.  In  a  sirocco, 
wherever  you  may  be,  you  are  part  and  parcel  of 
the  wind.  You  are  twisted  and  torn  and  gathered 
up  on  high ;  you  are  in  the  white  dust  which  tears 
down  the  wide  streets  like  the  very  smoke  of  hell ; 
you  are,  with  the  tall  yuccas,  laid  low ;  and  you  can 
feel  the  leaves  of  the  date  palms  being  tattered  and 
torn  like  a  shivering  beggar's  rags.  The  head 
grows  giddy  with  the  continual  rising  and  falling 
of  the  bamboos  and  the  swinging  of  the  tall  donax 
reeds.  They  are  like  the  heaving  and  sinking  of  a 
ship  on  a  stormy  sea.  Your  nerves  are  reduced  to 
such  a  state  of  exhaustion  that  you  become  the 
smallest  atom  of  dust,  caught  up  and  carried  high 
into  the  horrible  storm. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      243 

In  the  wide  boulevards  the  devastation  is  com- 
plete, and  the  dust  is  blinding.  When  you  see,  in 
the  distance,  a  white  company  of  it  charging  down 
to  envelope  you  and  bruise  you  with  the  violence  of 
its  stones  and  grit,  make  a  rush  for  the  first  narrow 
street,  dash  down  any  side  alley.  There  is  perfect 
safety  there,  although  the  air  is  still  laden  with  the 
fevered  breath  of  the  sirocco,  for  the  old  builders 
of  the  city  knew  that  the  wind-god  requires  scope 
and  freedom  for  the  gathering  up  of  his  forces. 
The  little  slit  of  low,  inky  sky,  showing  between 
the  high  walls,  is  a  different  matter  from  the  wide, 
terrifying  heavens  over  the  modern  city;  and  the 
stone-paved  streets,  which  will  scarcely  admit  of  the 
smallest  donkey-carts  passing,  do  not  gather  and 
keep  the  white  dust.  To-day  things  look  tired  and 
parched,  and  a  cry  goes  up  from  all  things  living 
and  growing  for  rain.  Flowers  are  choked  with 
dust,  and  the  palm  leaves  are  white ;  but  nature 
recovers  itself  so  quickly  in  the  South  that  there 
will  be  no  trace  of  this  storm  after  one  day's  good 
rain. 

I  am  rather  overpowered  by  the  number  of  ex- 
cursions which  one  ought  to  take  from  Palermo, 
but  at  last  I  have  seen  beggarly  Bagheria,  the  little 
village  where  all  the  big  neglected  country  palaces 
belonging  to  Sicilian  nobles  are  grouped.  It  is  well 
worth  seeing  from  a  romantic  and  sentimental  point 
of  view,  for  these  extraordinary  palaces  were  built 
in  the  days  when  it  was  the  mode  for  fashionable 
ladies  to  play  at  being  milkmaids.  Maria  Caroline 
had  no  doubt  introduced  into  far  Sicily  at  Bagheria 
many  of  her  ill-fated  sister's  picturesque  fads  and 
fancies.     Twenty  years  earlier,  Marie  Antoinette, 


244      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

weary  of  royal  functions,  had  endeavoured  to  amuse 
herself  by  assuming  the  role  of  rustic  simplicity. 
In  the  Little  Trianon  at  Versailles,  the  royal  milk- 
maid set  the  fashion  in  butter-making  and  pastoral 
flirtations.  Proud  princesses,  in  flowered  muslins 
and  floating  ribbons,  visited  the  pigs  and  drank  milk 
in  the  daintiest  of  royal  dairies. 

But  to-day  everything  in  Bagheria  is  melancholy 
and  depressing.  The  spacious  grounds  round  these 
rapidly  decaying  mansions  are  neglected,  and  given 
over  to  weeds ;  each  palace,  as  you  view  it  in  the 
distance  from  the  high  terrace  of  some  lonely 
garden,  seems  more  forlorn  and  forgotten  than  the 
last ;  and  yet  how  gay  they  must  have  been  in  the 
heyday  of  their  frivolity  and  grandeur  !  The  pretty 
princesses  and  the  courtly  princes  played  at  Arcadia 
not  so  many  miles  from  their  beloved  city  but  that 
they  could  bring  the  town  with  them  into  the 
country.  There  is  an  absurdity  about  the  architec- 
ture and  decorations  of  some  of  these  dilapidated 
buildings  which  quickly  brings  before  you  the 
frivolous  and  artificial  life  which  was  led  by  the 
people  to  whom  they  belonged — silly  people,  if  you 
like,  but  highly  romantic  and  happily  picturesque. 

Yesterday's  storm  was  gathering  in  the  skies 
when  I  drove  on  that  lonely  road  to  Bagheria.  On 
the  way  I  passed  the  little  ruined  church  of  San 
Giovanni  dei  Leprosi,  founded  by  Roger  the  Great 
Count  in  1071.  A  sad  name  and  a  melancholy  little 
building  it  is  to-day ;  the  excursion  generally  left 
one  depressed  and  lonely.  Bagheria  might  look 
beautiful  under  a  blue  sky  and  in  the  clear  bright 
Sicilian  air;  under  a  storm-laden  sky  and  in  the 
stifling  atmosphere  it  breathed  of  decay  and  desola- 
tion. * 


tn  the  cathedral  of  Monreale. "     The  most  beautiful  cloister  in  Europe. 

[To  face  p.   244. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      245 

How  strikingly  different  is  all  the  stucco 
splendour  of  Bagheria,  which  belongs  to  the  de- 
cadence of  Sicily,  from  the  stately  magnificence  of 
the  Stanza  di  Ruggero,  as  the  Norman  room  in  the 
Palazzo  Reale  is  called !  There  may  be  in  the 
Saracenic  world  some  golden  room  which  resembles 
this  one  of  Roger  the  King  in  the  Palazzo  Reale, 
but  I  have  not  seen  it ;  it  is  certainly  the  only  one 
in  Europe.  Hitherto,  when  I  have  intended  doing 
the  royal  palace  I  have  failed  to  get  farther  than  the 
Cappella  Palatina.  I  cannot  pass  its  doors.  If  I 
vow  just  one  peep,  it  extends  itself  into  delightful 
hours.  But  for  once,  I  don't  know  how,  I  found 
myself  in  the  hands  of  a  licensed  guide,  who 
positively  insisted  upon  my  seeing  the  famous 
Stanza  di  Ruggero;  and  I'm  glad  he  did  insist, 
for  I  think  that  Norman  room,  with  its  walls  en- 
crusted with  gold  and  green  mosaics,  and  its 
dripping  columns  of  rare  marbles,  placed  more 
vividly  before  me  the  solid  magnificence  of  the 
Arabo-Norman  period  in  Sicily  than  anything  else 
has  done.  This  room  of  Roger  the  King  is  almost 
as  glorious  as  his  chapel,  and  more  unique.  You 
could  not  say  it  was  a  comfy  or  a  homely  room ;  but 
then,  was  there  anything  comfy  in  the  days  when 
your  shirts  were  made  of  chain  mail,  and  did  these 
old  Norman  swells  ever  know  the  meaning  of  the 
dear  word  home,  or  the  luxury  of  an  armchair? 
When  you  are  in  this  strange,  Saracen-looking 
room,  which  reminds  you  more  of  a  retired  corner 
of  a  mosque  than  of  a  sitting-room,  you  cannot  help 
hoping  that  Roger  the  King  had  some  quiet  little 
den  in  the  palace,  where  alone  with  himself  he 
could  be  a  simple  human  man;  for  even  he  must 
have  had   those   moments   in   his  life  when  the 


246      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

sympathy  of  snug  surroundings  and  soft  chairs  is 
more  desirable  than  the  dignity  of  halls  and  marble 
benches  inlaid  with  ivory. 

For  artists  who  make  a  study  of  mosaics  there  is 
plenty  to  keep  them  busy  and  interested  in  and 
around  Palermo.  Besides  the  world-famed  mosaics 
in  the  cathedral  off  Monreale,  which  Baedeker  says 
cover  an  area  of  70,700  square  feet  and  date  from 
the  twelfth  century,  there  is  the  cathedral  at  Cefalu, 
which  boasts  of  the  most  perfect  and  ancient  mosaics 
in  Sicily.  The  Christ  of  Cefalu  is  so  often  referred 
to  by  authorities  on  mosaic  art  that  I  suppose  I 
must  go  and  see  it.  It  was  finished  in  the  year 
1148,  and  is  universally  agreed  to  be  one  of  the  most 
imposing  and  impressive  representations  of  our 
Lord  ever  executed  in  mosaic. 

But  if  this  hot  wind  lasts  much  longer  I  shall 
leave  all  these  sights,  which  it  seems  so  necessary  to 
visit  when  you  are  living  in  a  pension  where  guide- 
books are  the  only  form  of  literature.  When  I  get 
back  to  England  it  won't  matter  very  much  if  I 
have  seen  the  Cefalu  Christ  or  not,  or  the  famous 
Greek  temple  of  Segesta,  which  stands  all  alone  in 
the  heart  of  the  mountains.  These  things  will  not 
seem  of  such  vital  importance  as  they  do  to-day. 
I  shall  take  refuge  perhaps  in  the  little  mountain 
town  of  Taormina,  which  I  once  told  you  is  the 
undisputed  beauty  of  Sicily,  or  I  shall  get  aboard 
the  first  good  steamer  bound  straight  for  Marseilles. 

In  the  absence  of  all  war -news,  the  local  papers 
are  busy  over  the  glories  of  the  forthcoming  Paris 
exhibition.  As  Italians  dote  on  exhibitions,  this 
latest  news  is  even  more  popular  than  South  Africa. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      247 

P.S. — I  must  tell  you  that  while  the  storm  lasted 
the  shaved  Swiss  walked  about  the  palace  wringing 
his  hands  and  ejaculating  at  intervals,  M  Ach, 
terrible-ness  ! "  This  is  his  persistent  adjective  at 
the  present  moment.  When  I  told  him  I  had 
visited  Bagheria,  and  alluded  to  its  decayed 
splendour,  he  responded  with,  "  Ach,  terrible- 
ness  !  terrible-ness  ! "  The  toughness  of  the  ubiqui- 
tous kid  at  lunch  is  u  terrible-ness,"  and  so  is  the 
noise  of  the  church  bells  which  never  stop  clanging 
in  Palermo. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

J.  C. 


Palermo, 

March  302/1. 

My  dear  Louise, — 

You  want  to  hear  more  about  Alice's  boy, 
perhaps  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  for  my  intimacy 
with  him  does  not  ripen  as  quickly  as  his  has  done 
with  Doris,  who  has  mitigated  her  first  rather  severe 
criticism  upon  him.  He  is,  she  now  declares,  much 
more  sensible  than  the  ordinary  young  man  of  his 
age,  and  really  quite  interesting  when  you  get  him 
on  the  subjects  that  interest  him.  With  a  woman's 
quickness  she  has,  of  course,  discovered  these  sub- 
jects. I  have  not.  The  things  he  seems  to  be 
most  interested  in  in  Palermo  are  the  Saints'-day 
and  race-meetings,  and  the  eating  of  ices  in  the  Cafe 
Trinacria.  Nothing  seems  to  shock  his  stomach  or 
impress  his  imagination.  He  has  attached  himself 
to  Doris  and  her  friends,  who  seem  willing  enough 
to  fall  in  with  his  ideas  of  the  proper  way  to  see 
Palermo. 

Poor  little  Doris !  When  I  have  passed  their 
gay  company  once  or  twice,  she  has  tried  to  look  as 
if  she  was  not  enjoying  herself,  as  if  her  gaiety  was 
only  assumed;  but  I  have  noted  the  new  pretty 
white  dress,  and  the  dainty  shade  hat,  which  only 
partly  conceals  the  bright  flush  on  her  cheeks ;  the 
instinctive  feminine  desire  to  preen  her  feathers  to 
please  the  male  bird  is  noticeable.  There  is  a  well- 
known  Italian  saying,  La  donna  savia  h  alV  impen- 

sata,  alia  pensata  e  matta  (Women  are  wise  off- 

248 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      249 

hand,  but  fools  on  reflection),  which  seems  to  me 
applicable  to  the  subject. 

This  morning  I  went  round  to  the  Hotel  des 
Palmes  to  invite  Doris  to  spend  the  morning  with 
me  in  the  Botanical  Gardens.  I  was  met  by  Jack, 
who  told  me,  without  mincing  matters,  that  Doris 
couldn't  possibly  come,  as  they  were  all  on  the  point 
of  starting  off  to  visit  some  old  church  out  in  the 
country,  the  name  of  which  he  couldn't  pronounce. 
It  turned  out  to  be  S.  Maria  di  Gesu,  one  of  the 
particular  places  I  wished  to  show  Doris.  It  was 
formerly  a  Minorite  monastery,  and  is  to-day  one 
of  the  most  picturesque  things  in  Sicily.  "  Great 
Caesar's  ghost !"  I  said  to  myself,  "  fancy  this  gay 
company  of  fashionable  sight-seers,  headed  by  a 
German  dragoman,  going  to  disturb  the  repose  of 
that  quiet  little  cemetery,  nestling  under  a  hill, 
which  is  a  veritable  garden  of  wild-flowers ! ' '  Some 
brown-f rocked  monks  are  always  busy,  training  the 
roses  and  tending  the  graves  in  their  ancient 
cemetery,  where  many  of  the  great  of  Palermo  lie 
buried,  or  conducting  a  funeral  service,  when  the 
tall  candles  burn  steadily  in  that  sheltered  corner, 
but  show  a  foolish  light  in  the  brilliant  sunshine. 
On  the  flat  roof  of  the  whitewashed  monastery  one 
afternoon  two  contented  brothers  were  seated 
watching  a  family  of  lately-hatched  chickens  take 
in  their  first  impression  of  the  world — a  kindly 
world,  and,  viewed  from  this  old-world  spot,  so 
beautiful,  so  quaintly  picturesque,  these  chirping 
chickens  must  have  been  very  favourably  impressed 
concerning  their  hitherto  very  limited  view.  S. 
Maria  di  Gesu,  with  its  wealth  of  wild-flowers  and 
its  glorious  view  of  pink  Pellegrino  and  its  peaceful 
little  monastery,  which  has  a  sunny  white  terrace 


250      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

in  front  of  it,  paved  with  the  ancient  tombstones  of 
departed  Minorite  monks,  and  a  fountain  with 
seven  beasts,  is  just  the  sort  of  place  where  you  lose 
all  count  of  time,  and  think  nothing  matters  so 
much  as  the  beauty  of  Sicily. 

As  I  passed  back  through  the  flower-scented 
cemetery,  where  the  busy  bees  from  the  monastery 
hives  were  improving  the  shining  hours,  one  of  the 
brown-frocked  monks  presented  me  with  a  magnifi- 
cent bouquet  of  roses.  My  arms  were  full  of  wild- 
flowers  of  the  most  interesting  varieties,  which  I 
had  gathered  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  The 
monk  shook  his  hairy  head  and  pointed  scornfully 
at  them.  "  Salvaggio,  signore,"  he  said ;  "  salvag- 
gio,  throw  them  away ;  they  are  not  worth  taking 
home."  I  was  sure  that  Doris  would  prefer  the 
new  specimens  of  wild-flowers,  gathered  from  the 
mountain,  to  the  deep  orange-coloured  roses  grown 
upon  cherished  graves,  so,  although  I  thanked  him 
and  accepted  the  roses,  I  did  not  throw  away  the 
crimsonest  of  wild  anemones,  or  the  pale  feathery 
mauve  flower  which  would  have  added  glory  to  any 
English  hothouse. 

But  I  have  been  wandering,  for  I  meant  to  tell 
you  about  the  Botanical  Gardens,  where  I  found 
myself  half  an  hour  after  Jack's  party  had  started 
off  in  their  fine  two-horsed  carriages  on  their  visit  to 
the  Gesu.  Jack  had  arranged  things  very  nicely, 
and  Doris  blushed  a  little  as  I  watched  her  take  her 
seat  by  his  side,  chaperoned  only  by  the  German 
dragoman,  who  was,  of  course,  posted  on  the  box- 
seat  beside  the  coachman. 

M  I  wish  you  were  coming,"  Doris  said  to  me; 
"  but  you've  been  there,  haven't  you?  You've 
seen  the  Gesu,  and  my  friends  arrange  things  all  so 
pat  that  I  haven't  a  word  to  say  in  the  matter." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      251 

"  Don't  bother  about  me,"  I  said ;  "  I  can  find 
lots  to  do  in  Palermo." 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  all  alone ;  it  must  be  so  dull 

"     She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  almost 

in  a  whisper  said  :  "  Don't  think  me  horrid." 

6  I  never  could,"  I  replied.  "  In  my  eyes  you 
will  always  be  charming." 

"  Now  you're  unkind,  and  you  do  think  me 
horrid,"  she  said.  M  That's  the  sort  of  pat  little 
speech  you  make  to  nasty  people  whom  you  wish 
to  say  nice  things  to.  Won't  you  come  with  us  ? — 
we  could  easily  make  room  for  you  in  this  carriage." 

"  Jack  would  have  to  sit  back  to  the  horses,"  I 
said,  u  on  that  little  shelf  which  is  scarcely  wide 
enough  to  hold  your  guide-book.  How  do  you 
think  he'd  like  it?" 

She  smiled  a  little  doubtfully. 

"  He  doesn't  like  being  uncomfortable  certainly, 
but  I'm  sure  he  would  be  very  glad  ...  if  you " 

"  There's  time  enough  to  begin  telling  fibs  on 
his  account,"  I  said.  "  Let  me  help  you  into  the 
carriage  and  tuck  the  dust-rug  closely  round  you, 
for  the  road  to  the  Gesu  is  long  and  white  and 
dusty.  The  little  houses  by  the  roadside  are 
horribly  poor  and  totally  void  of  beauty.  Every 
one  seems  to  be  waiting  in  a  starving  condition  for 
something  which  never  comes.  The  men  and  the 
women  sit  idle  at  their  open  doors,  while  the  half- 
naked  children  play  in  the  hot  dust  with  the  lean 
pigs  and  the  fleas.  When  you  arrive  at  the  Gesu 
it  seems  like  an  earthly  paradise,  so  great  is  the 
contrast." 

"  Poor  starving  Sicily  !"  she  said ;  "  it  is,  as  you 
say,  always  waiting.  '  II  mondo  &  di  chi  ha 
pazienza  '  is  the  motto  you  too  often  hear.    If  they 


252      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

would  remember  that  God  helps  those  who  help 
themselves  it  would  be  better  for  them." 

"  Perhaps  they've  ceased  to  believe  that,"  I  said. 
"  God  seems  to  have  turned  His  face  away  from 
Sicily  lately." 


Not  in  the  best  of  humours,  I  lifted  my  hat  as 
they  drove  off,  and  turned  on  my  heel  towards  the 
Gardens.  I  didn't  care  much  what  they  were  like, 
but  it  was  somewhere  to  go  and  some  cool  place  to 
rest  in,  while  I  considered  Jack's  future  prospects, 
and  viewed  him  in  the  light  of  a  husband  for  a  girl 
who  expected  and  enjoyed  a  large  share  of  this 
world's  goods.  As  you  know,  I  could  argue 
nothing  against  him  from  a  social  or  worldly  point 
ojf  view,  for  in  that  respect  Alice's  marriage  was  a 
good  one,  and  as  I  was  a  few  years  younger  than 
Jack  when  she  chose  between  me  and  a  man  with 
three  times  my  income,  I  cannot  complain  of  Jack 
being  too  young  to  know  his  own  mind.  Consider- 
ing the  case  from  Doris's  side,  I  think  it's  a  desir- 
able match,  for  her  home — now  that  her  guardian 
has  married  again,  and  a  woman  whom  Doris  very 
much  dislikes — will  not  be  a  happy  one,  and  Doris 
must  not  be  unhappy.  She  is  one  of  those  gay, 
feminine  things  born  to  be  loved,  and  she  is  so 
accustomed  to  pleasant  luxuries  that  Fate,  if  it  be 
of  the  masculine  gender,  could  never  deprive  her  of 
her  birthright.  "  She  that  is  born  a  beauty  is  born 
married,"  so  the  people  say  here  when  they  look  at 
a  girl  like  Doris,  and  it  is  very  true.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  consider  Doris  as  an  old  maid,  or  even 
as  an  unmarried  woman  at  thirty. 

When  I  reached  the  Gardens,  which  are  close  to 
the  Marina,  my  annoyance  at  Jack's  manner  had 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      258 

cooled  down  into  something  like  self-pity.  I  was 
uncommonly  sorry  for  myself,  and  at  the  moment 
not  the  least  aware  of  the  fact  that  I  ought  to  have 
known  better  than  to  expect  anything  else.  Youth 
is  a  human  magnet,  and  middle-age  is  old-age  to 
those  who  are  young.  "  Man  is  fire,  woman  tow, 
and  the  devil  comes  and  blows,"  and  so  it  is  no- 
body's fault ;  but  the  way  Jack  talks  about  "  the 
things  of  your  day,  sir,"  when  he  addresses  me,  is, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  slap  in  the  face. 

In  the  Gardens  there  is  a  giant  fig-tree  from 
North  Australia,  which  has  formed  a  charming 
jungle,  quite  like  a  bit  of  a  tropical  forest.  These 
Moreton  Bay  fig-trees,  as  the  gardeners  call  them 
in  Australia,  throw  down  long  arms  to  the  earth, 
which  take  root  and  throw  up  fresh  trunks  into  the 
sky,  which  again  in  their  turn  throw  down  arms  and 
repeat  the  process  of  multiplying  in  the  earth,  until 
the  one  original  root  is  the  mother  of  many  trees. 
There  is  something  uncanny — as  there  is  about  all 
tropical  vegetation — in  these  most  prolific  trees,  for 
the  trunks  and  arms  are  of  a  dull  grey  colour  and 
smooth  surface,  which  remind  me  of  the  thick 
texture  and  hue  of  a  half-caste  skin;  like  all  fig- 
trees,  this  one  is  very  markedly  naked  in  appear- 
ance, even  when  in  full  leaf.  The  roots  are  of  such 
a  rebellious  shape  and  immense  size  that,  with 
Sicilian  ingenuity,  the  gardeners  have  utilised  them 
for  armchair  rustic  seats.  The  tropical  effect  of  the 
little  jungle  is  heightened  by  the  heavy  trailing 
plants  which  have  wound  themselves  round  the 
smooth,  grey  suckers,  and  stretched  themselves 
from  arm  to  arm  of  this  many-rooted  tree.  As  I 
stopped  beneath  its  dark  shade,  I  could  not  quite 
recall  what  feature  was  missing  to  complete  the 

i7 


254      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

miniature  tropical  scene.  Suddenly  I  recollected 
there  were  no  brilliant  parrots  flocking  in  the  deep 
green  overhead,  and  the  evil-speaking  monkeys, 
which  ought  to  have  been  lying  and  slandering 
together,  as  they  swung  themselves  from  branch  to 
branch,  were  not  there.  I  wondered  if  this 
particular  sort  of  vegetation  was  invented  solely  for 
their  benefit,  for  the  linking  together  of  the  trees 
gives  these  wicked  little  folk  an  overhead  path  in 
the  forest  jungles,  which  must  be  very  useful  in  the 
time  of  danger. 

But  instead  of  the  chattering  of  monkeys,  or  the 
watery  warblings  of  parrots,  I  heard  a  voice  which 
suddenly  carried  my  thoughts'back  to  Syracuse  and 
the  orange  grove  in  the  deep- walled  latomia. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Miss  Rosina,  but  with  a  new 
note  in  it — not  of  tears  to-day,  but  of  womanly 
confidence  in  her  powers  as  a  woman  who  is  loved. 
I  listened  (for  a  moment.  Would  Miss  Persephine 
answer?  I  did  not  expect  so,  for  the  quality  of  a 
woman's  voice  responds  to  the  sex  whom  she  is 
addressing.  The  vegetation  completely  screened 
her  and  her  companion  from  my  sight. 

"  Ach!  but  to  loove  and  to  be  wise  is  not 
possible." 

I  knew  that  voice,  too,  and  the  sound  of  it 
brought  back  to  me  one  warm  day  on  the  river 
Anapus,  and  a  short  stout  figure  clad  in  a  black 
mackintosh.  I  could  see  the  slender  hand  of  Miss 
Rosina,  trailing  her  tapered  American  fingers 
through  the  water,  and  then  a  thick,  freckled  hand, 
a  little  hairy,  slip  into  the  water  beside  hers. 

I  could  not  help  smiling  as  the  words  struck  my 
ears,  for  nothing  could  ever  convince  me  that  a 
German  would  not  be  wise,  however  much  he  might 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY       255 

love.  I  did  not  hear  Miss  Rosina's  answer.  Per- 
haps she,  too,  did  not  care  to  be  wise,  but,  like  a 
woman,  was  urging  impossibilities  for  the  pleasure 
of  receiving  realities. 

My  guide,  a  most  intelligent  under-gardener, 
who  was  dressed  in  the  usual  gardener's  uniform  of 
butcher's  blue  linen  trousers  and  long  coat,  gave 
me  no  chance  of  retiring  before  the  lovers  were 
aware  of  my  presence,  for  he  walked  on  ahead,  close 
to  the  retired  seat  on  which  they  were  sitting. 

Miss  Rosina,  with  a  woman's  alertness,  looked 
up  ;  and  when  she  saw  me,  a  blush,  which  was  really 
very  pretty  considering  her  age,  bathed  her  fine 
skin.  An  arm  in  a  tweed  sleeve  hung  foolishly 
behind  her  seat :  a  more  unemployed-looking  arm  I 
never  saw;  I  was  convinced  it  would  commence 
work  again  the  moment  I  was  out  of  sight. 

Our  greeting  was  a  little  embarrassed.  I  noticed 
that  Miss  Rosina  was  dressed  in  the  same  delicate 
sort  of  silk,  powdered  with  flowers,  as  she  had  worn 
at  Syracuse,  but  that  the  professor — for  I  must  no 
longer  call  him  Herr  Mackintosh — had  on  a  tweed 
suit  which,  by  its  brand-newness,  I  am  convinced 
had  never  been  worn  under  a  black  mackintosh  in 
hot  weather. 

"  Love  knows  no  measure,"  I  said  to  myself, 
repeating  the  old  Italian  motto,  "  Amor  non 
conosce  misura,"  if  even  a  German  will  buy  fine 
feathers  when  he  is  in  love.  They  were  ready- 
made  feathers,  to  be  sure;  that  I  could  see  at  a 
glance,  and  Jack  would  have  scorned  them  for  his 
valet;  but  as  all  Germany  is  machine-made,  and 
does  not  keep  valets,  that  did  not  matter,  and  they 
did  not  fit  their  occupant  so  badly. 


956      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  How  is  Miss  Doris?"  Miss  Rosina  asked,  the 
moment  her  fluttering  breath  would  permit  her. 
There  was  a  look  in  both  of  their  eyes  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Why  are  you  alone?  You  know  that  if 
you  had  been  sitting  with  Miss  Doris  where  we  were 
sitting  just  now,  and  we  had  suddenly  come  into 
view,  you  would  have  looked  quite  as  foolish.' p 
"  Not  quite,"  I  thought ;  "  but  I  will  not  tell  you 
that,"  for  no  man  likes  to  own  himself  displaced, 
so  I  answered  as  tactfully  as  I  could. 

11  Miss  Doris  is  very  well  now  but  the  hot  wind 
of  the  last  few  days  has  tried  her.  She  did  not  care 
to  come  to  the  Gardens  to-day;  she  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you.  At  what  hotel  may  I  tell  her 
you  are  staying?" 

"  At  the  Hotel  des  Palmes,"  the  professor  said. 
"  We  did  vurst  go  to  zee  Hotel  Trinacria,  but  zee 
food  was  very  weak,  so  I  insist  that  Miss  Rosina  go 
to  zee  H6tel  des  Palmes.  She  never  eats  nosing 
but  zee  ice  creams." 

M  Miss  Doris  is  staying  at  the  Hotel  des  Palmes 
too,"  I  said.     M  Have  you  not  seen  her?" 

u  No,"  Miss  Rosina  said.  M  We  are  only  going 
there  this  evening ;  our  luggage  went  this  morning ; 
our  rooms  are  not  ready  yet." 

"  Are  you  not  then  yourself  at  zee  H6tel  des 
Palmes?"  the  professor  asked,  with  a  glint  of 
humour  in  his  bespectacled  eyes. 

"  No,"  I  said  casually,  "I  am  at  the  Palazzo 
Monteleone — the  old  palace  of  the  family  of  the 
great  Cortez." 

"  Ach !  that  is  interesting,  to  be  sure ;  and  is  it 
comfortable  also?" 

"  It  is  amusing,"  I  said,  "  and  that  is  better ;  for 
as  Madame  Politi  used  to  say  when  people  com- 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      257 

plained  to  her  of  the  food  in  her  hotel,  '  But,  my 
dear  sir,  you  did  not  surely  come  to  Syracuse  for 
the  beef -steak,  no  so?'  " 

Miss  Rosina  laughed. 

"  The  German  '  so  '  is  very  catching,"  she  said ; 
"  I  use  it  myself  now." 

"  You  will  speak  German  directly,"  her  admir- 
ing lover  said :  "  already  you  understand  a  little; 
you  are  very  intelligent.     So." 

Miss  Rosina  shook  her  head. 

"  Your  English  is  so  good  that  I  have  no  need 
to  learn  German." 

"  No,  dat  ess  not  so,"  he  said  almost  sadly ;  "  but 
to  know  a  lady  you  must  say  somesing." 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  I  said,  "  and  I  think  you 
have  managed  very  well,  professor." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  very  low. 

"  I  have  progressed  so  well,"  he  said,  "  zat  Miss 
Rosina  is  to  be  my  wife.  I  am  very  proud  .  .  .  but 
I  should  prefer  that  I  make  loove  to  her  in  my  own 
language.     She  would  like  it  much  better." 

I  laughed,  but  he  remained  perfectly  serious. 

"  Ach!  is  it  not  so?  It  is  very  difficult  to 
express  oneself  agreeably  to  a  sensitive  lady  in  a 
leetle  English." 

I  wondered  if  Miss  Rosina  had  shown  any  shrink- 
ing when  she  had  compared  him  with  her  "  glorious 
lover  "  ;  but  as  I  looked  at  her  it  seemed  to  me  she 
was  quite  pleased  with  her  professor's  proud  air  of 
possession,  and  quite  ready  for  me  to  take  my 
lonely  way  through  one  of  the  little  paths  which 
wind  in  and  out  of  the  fig-tree  jungle.  They  would 
prefer  that  I  should  take  the  one  which  led  out, 
and  so  I  was  agreeable. 


258      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Out  in  the  bright  sunshine  everything  seemed 
young  and  happy  but  myself.  Blushing  Miss 
Rosina,  the  proud,  possessive  German,  the  young 
nurse-girl  who  was  flirting  very  prettily  with  an 
artillery  soldier  under  the  acacias,  and,  lastly,  Doris 
and  Jack.  I  thought  of  their  two  fair  heads  seated 
together  side  by  side  on  some  old  tombstone  out  at 
the  quiet  Gesu.  I  am  an  old  fool,  I  know,  to 
grudge  youth  its  light ;  but  the  blue  sky  overhead 
and  the  beautiful  gardens,  with  the  lotus  pond 
where  the  papyrus  whispered  and  looked  cool,  only 
made  me  feel  my  lonely  state  the  more. 

Even  the  Gardens  failed  to  rouse  me ;  but  at  last 
a  cataract  of  red  nasturtiums,  which  was  pouring 
itself  over  the  dark  blades  of  a  tall  yucca,  did  bring 
an  exclamation  of  pleasure  to  my  lips.  There  is 
nothing  Sicilians  dislike  so  much  as  a  distracted 
sightseer ;  they  would  rather  show  their  flowers  and 
curious  specimens  of  bamboos,  or  whatever  object 
of  interest  they  have  the  care  of,  to  a  man  who 
loved  them  well  than  to  one  who  paid  them  liberally 
for  their  trouble. 

In  response  to  my  praise  of  the  charming  effect  of 
the  falling  nasturtiums,  he  at  once  dragged  down  a 
trail  of  their  blossoms  which  he  called  Cappuccio, 
because  they  resembled  in  shape  the  hood  of  a 
Capuchin  monk.  Sicilians,  like  a  primitive  people, 
are  fond  of  giving  their  flowers,  as  well  as  their 
beasts  and  friends,  nicknames ;  and  some  of  them 
are  strangely  apt  and  well  chosen,  though  not 
always  pleasant  or  flattering. 

The  trifoglio,  which  is  the  Sicilian  weed  par 
excellence,  and  carpets  the  orange  and  lemon  groves 
all  round  Palermo  with  pale  yellow,  is  in  all  its  fresh 
glory  just  now ;  but  the  beautiful  little  flower,  which 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      259 

is  as  delicately  spring-scented  as  our  English  prim- 
rose, is  very  provoking;  it  only  opens  its  tender 
petals  for  a  few  hours  each  day,  and  quite  surely 
they  will  be  shut  at  the  very  time  you  take  a  journey 
out  to  some  orange  grove  to  see  the  golden  glory  of 
the  fruit  and  the  trefoil. 

The  leaves  of  this  terrible  little  weed,  which  it  is 
as  difficult  to  root  out  of  the  land  as  it  is  to 
exterminate  the  rabbits  in  Australia,  are  very  much 
like  the  Irish  shamrock,  and  their  green  is  as  green 
as  the  young  paddy  fields  in  India.  It  is  a  merciful 
act  of  Providence  that  the  ordinary  Sicilian  beast — 
I  am  not  talking  of  cows,  for  they  are  extraordinary 
in  Sicily — likes  this  beautiful  weed  which  grows,  as 
everything  else  does  grow  in  the  South,  with  im- 
moral abandonment.  It  possesses  the  land  with  an 
unconquerable  power,  which  paralyses  the  patient 
farmer. 

Beautiful  as  a  crop  of  this  greenest  of  weeds  looks, 
growing  below  the  darker  green  orange-trees,  whose 
golden  fruit  seems  to  have  cast  a  reflection  on  the 
trifoglio,  even  to  the  blaze  of  yellow  flower,  it  be- 
tokens ill  for  the  condition  of  the  orange-trees,  for 
the  trifoglio  is  far  too  greedy  of  soil  to  be  a  healthy 
companion  for  any  fruit-trees.  But  the  Sicilian 
orange  and  lemon  industry  has  so  fallen  from  its 
high  estate  since  richer  lands  have  flooded  the 
market  with  their  more  carefully  selected  fruits, 
that  the  virtue  of  the  soil  is  often  stolen  from  their 
orange  groves  to  give  to  some  more  paying  crop  of 
broad  beans,  peas,  or  artichokes,  which  replace  each 
other  in  endless  rotation  under  the  shade  of  the 
orange  groves. 

It  is,  I  think,  the  peel  and  not  the  fruit  of  the 
oranges  and  lemons  which  is  now  the  paying  in- 


260      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

dustry  in  Sicily;  for  here  in  Palermo,  or  in  Syra- 
cuse, I  have  never  seen  the  smallest  piece  of  orange 
or  lemon  peel  thrown  away,  whereas  no  one  would 
thank  you  for  the  inside  of  the  juicy  fruit.  Every 
one  who  knows  Sicily  well  must  be  familiar  with  the 
smell  of  (fermenting  lemon  peel.  In  every  village 
or  town  you  can  see  groups  of  men  and  women 
sitting  in  dark  sheds  or  in  the  bassi  of  a  high  palace, 
quartering  and  gutting,  like  fish,  stacks  of  freshly 
pulled  lemons.  I  have  often  seen  in  the  country 
a  golden  dunghill  made  of  nothing  else  but  fine 
orange  or  lemon-peel  slowly  decaying  in  the  sun ; 
the  air  for  half  a  mile  or  more  being  pungent  with 
the  smell  of  lemons  in  a  decomposed  state.  I  have 
been  told  that  these  dunghills  are  spirits  of  lemon  in 
an  immature  state.  I  have  no  reasonable  objection 
to  make  if  that  is  the  case,  but  I  have  my  doubts 
whether  it  is  not  the  inexpensive  and  ingenious  way 
the  Sicilian  has  of  making  lemonade. 

Down  at  the  Cala,  both  in  Palermo  and  in  Syra- 
cuse, I  have  watched  ships  being  laden  with  im- 
mense casks  which  contain  the  rinds  of  quartered 
oranges  and  lemons ;  sometimes  these  rinds  are  dry 
and  sometimes  they  are  juicy  and  in  a  state  of 
fermentation.  When  this  is  the  case,  great  care 
has  to  be  taken  of  the  cargo,  and  for  weeks  and 
weeks  these  casks,  smelling  strongly  ojf  lemons,  will 
remain  on  the  pier  head.  Each  day  they  are  turned 
and  tapped  by  men  who  know  their  work.  I  have 
seen  very  few  cargoes  of  fresh  fruit  shipped,  which 
seems  rather  sad.  In  Palermo  every  little  window 
has  its  string  of  orange  peel  hanging  out  to  dry,  and 
whenever  an  orange  is  eaten  by  a  member  of  the 
household,  or  an  extravagant  stranger  throws  a 
piece  of  peel  on  the  ground,  the  thrifty  Sicilian  adds 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      261 

something  to  his  golden  necklace ;  the  chain  grows 
and  grows  until  it  is  looped  and  doubled  across  and 
across  the  small  window  or  round  a  fine  old  Spanish 
balcony,  for  it  is  all  part  and  parcel  of  Sicily  to  see 
the  handsome  black  wrought-iron  roses,  with  their 
fine  curling  leaves,  which  decorate  these  Spanish 
balconies  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries 
on  the  lofty  palaces,  wreathed  and  almost  hidden 
with  strings  of  dried  and  crumpled  orange-peel. 
I  do  not  think  that  the  Sicilian  housewife  ever  has 
any  rags  or  bones  to  sell,  for  she  boils  down  the  one 
into  soup  and  wears  the  other ;  but  the  cry  of  the 
dried  orange-peel  hawker  is  as  familiar  in  Syracuse 
and  Palermo  as  the  cry  of  the  cats'-meat  or  rag-and- 
bone  man  is  in  London.  If  a  Sicilian  chances — 
which  is  not  often — to  buy  an  orange  from  a  fruit- 
seller,  and  means  to  eat  it  then  and  there,  he  in- 
variably returns  the  peel  to  the  salesman,  but  if  a 
stranger  buys  the  orange,  the  man  follows  in  his 
footsteps  and  picks  up  the  skin.  Such  thrift  is  not 
known  in  England  :  it  is  the  thrift  of  universal, 
patient  poverty.  Poor  Sicily  !  how  much  you  have 
suffered,  how  little  you  have  been  rewarded ! 

This  reminds  me  of  a  remark  Jack  made  to-day 
when  Doris  and  I  were  speaking  upon  this  very 
subject. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  the  united  kingdom  of  Sicily 
and  Italy  consists  of  those  who  are  waiters  and  those 
who  are  waiting !" 

Now  when  I  have  finished  this  long  letter  I  find 
I  have  told  you  very  little  about  the  Botanical 
Gardens.  Well,  they  are  not  so  beautiful  as  the 
Villa  Tusca  or  the  garden  of  the  Due  d' Orleans, 
but  they  have  a  repose  and  character  quite  of  their 
own,  and  the  variety  of  palms,  aloes,  yuccas,  and 


262      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

cacti  is  certainly  greater  here  than  in  any  private 
garden  I  have  seen.  There  is  an  interesting  collec- 
tion of  bamboos,  some  of  which  are  quite  forty  feet 
in  height.  The  specimen  which  particularly  took 
my  fancy  had  a  rod  of  bright  canary  yellow.  When 
I  remarked  on  its  beauty  to  the  gardener — for  in 
the  clump  they  looked  lovely,  swaying  about  in  the 
delicate  foliage,  which  rustled  just  like  a  lady's 
silken  skirts — he  said,  "  Si,  si,  signore,  they  are 
very  beautiful,  but,  like  everything  else,  their  gold 
turns  to  grey  as  they  grow  older.  Look!"  he 
added,  pointing  out  some  stems  spotted  like 
leopards,  u  those  come  from  Brazil.  In  their  first 
year  they  grow  fifteen  feet  in  height  and  are  totally 
without  leaves,  with  a  curious  bark  like  the  scales  of 
a  fish.  They  lose  these  scales  in  their  second  year, 
when  their  skin  becomes  pale  green ;  in  their  third 
year  a  few  shoots  are  thrown  out  at  right  angles, 
and  when  they  are  four  years  old  they  are  fully 
developed  bamboos,  with  spotted  rods  quite  twenty 
feet  high  and  in  luxurious  leaf."  Lying  on  the 
ground  in  these  groves  of  bamboos  there  were 
hundreds  of  lately  dropped,  delicate,  silver-lined 
scales.  There  was  something  rather  pathetic  about 
them  to  me,  though  I  scarcely  know  why.  But 
doubtless  it  was  because  they  were  a  visible  token 
of  lost  youth. 

The  Botanical  Gardens  are,  of  course,  kept  up  for 
the  benefit  of  the  university  students,  and  therefore 
every  tree  and  plant  is  marked  very  clearly  with  its 
proper  Latin  name.  There  are  many  pretty  tricks 
in  Sicilian  gardening  I  wish  I  could  carry  home  to 
England.  Here  the  wide  paths,  for  instance,  were 
bordered  on  either  side  by  two  rows  of  moss-covered 
bricks,  just  wide  enough  apart  and  sufficiently  deep 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      263 

to  carry  a  small  flower-pot.  These  pots  were  filled 
all  down  one  path  with  some  delicate  mauve  flower, 
very  similiar  to  the  wild  ones  I  gathered  on  the 
mountain  behind  the  Gesu,  and  on  another  path 
they  were  filled  with  the  smallest  of  pink  roses. 
Pansies  make  a  charming  border  in  this  way,  and 
so  do  fuchsias.  The  beauty  of  the  idea  is  that  when 
your  pansy  pots  are  over,  you  can  take  them  out 
and  replace  them  with  whatever  pleases  your  fancy 
or  the  gardener  has  ready.  The  line  of  bricks  does 
not  look  hard,  at  least  not  here,  where  moss  and  the 
old-fashioned  penny- wort,  and  all  sorts  of  small 
plants  which  find  their  home  in  stones  soon  cover 
them. 

Yours, 

J.  C. 


Palermo, 

April  2othi  1900. 

Dear  Louise, — 

I  am  looking  for  the  last  time  at  the  little 
children  down  in  the  sunny  courtyard  tumbling  into 
the  long  yellow  omnibus,  and  I  have  said  farewell  to 
the  old  cab-mender  and  tailor-body,  and  the  happy 
hatter  who  scrubs  his  leghorns  at  the  fountain  all 
day  long  and  gathers  the  gossip  of  the  palace  for 
those  who  live  in  its  inner  courtyard — for  a  fountain 
is  the  people's  club  in  Sicily  and  many  topics  are 
discussed  there.  Since  Biblical  times  this  drawing 
of  water  from  the  wells  has  played  an  important 
part  in  the  lives  of  the  people,  whose  customs  never 
change.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
hatter  has  the  best  time  of  any  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  palace,  (for  he  is  sure  to  be  in  the  courtyard  when 
my  lady  of  the  black  mantilla  steps  out  of  her 
carriage  and  disappears  into  the  fencing  hall,  and 
there  is  always  life  at  that  fountain  of  some  sort. 
A  pretty  girl,  perhaps,  accompanied  by  her  mis- 
tress, will  spend  one  golden  hour  washing  a  bunch 
of  purple-rooted  onions,  while  the  hatter  pulls  and 
kneads  and  coaxes  an  antiquated  leghorn  into  a 
more  modern  shape  over  a  wooden  block ;  or  an  old 
grey  horse  past  even  Sicilian  use,  accompanied  by 
an  old  man  still  more  useless,  will  limp  its  way 
across  the  cobble-stones  and  let  its  mouth  rest  in  the 
cool  water.  Occasionally  it  will  muster  up  just 
enough  energy  to  draw  in,  with  a  hissing  sound,  a 
little  water  through  its  half-closed  mouth,  but  it 

a64 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      265 

seems  best  contented  to  look  with  cloudy  eyes  into 
the  depths  of  the  cool  basin  and  moisten  its  lips  on 
the  surface. 

The  old  man  may  be  past  work,  but  no  Sicilian 
above  ground  is  ever  past  talking,  and  so  the  hatter 
can  have  from  the  lips  of  the  very  person  who  saw 
it,  a  dramatic  account  of  the  murder  which  took 
place  in  the  Giardino  Inglese  yesterday.  A  cavalry 
officer  of  noble  family  was  walking  with  a  popular 
actress  in  the  broad  daylight,  when  a  rejected  lover 
of  the  lady's  shot  him  through  the  heart.  I  do  not 
think  that  that  hatter  would  exchange  his  lot  with 
any  well-paid  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  England,  and 
small  wonder  too,  for  the  moment  he  is  tired  he 
will  leave  the  leghorn  to  soak,  and  stretch  himself 
out  on  his  back  on  the  warm  stones,  and  sleep  with 
his  face  turned  upwards  to  the  dark,  over-spreading, 
stone-pines.  No  one  disturbs  a  sleeping  man  in 
Sicily. 

I  am  writing  this  in  my  last  hours  in  Sicily ;  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  sail  for  Naples  to-night. 

The  old  Englishman,  who  is  always  packing  up 
his  trunks  to  go  home,  announced  his  intention  of 
coming  by  the  same  boat  with  me  ;  indeed,  he  kept 
up  the  farce  until  an  hour  ago,  when  he  bounded 
into  my  room  in  great  distress.  Alas  !  he  had  just 
received  some  letters  which  would  detain  him  in 
Palermo  for  a  few  days  longer.  When  Miss  Rosina 
came  to  see  me  the  other  day  (I  was  recovering 
from  a  slight  attack  of  fever,  which  had  kept  me  in 
my  room  for  a  couple  of  days)  I  heard  the  old  hum- 
bug say  to  her  as  she  was  passing  under  the 
corridor  : 

"  My  dear  lady,  although  my  acquaintance  with 
you  is  very  slight,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  do  me  a 
great  favour.     I  have  the  very  worst  taste  in  the 


266      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

world ;  I  would  not  dare  to  choose  anything  for  any 
one  except  myself :  would  you  be  good  enough  to 
help  me  to  select  some  pottery  for  a  bazaar  which 
my  sister  is  getting  up  for  the  war  fund  in 
England?" 

I  did  not  wait  to  hear  Miss  Rosina's  answer,  but 

I  hope  he  heard  my  exclamation  "  D d  old 

fool !"  as  I  shut  my  door. 

You  will  have  guessed,  Louise,  with  a  woman's 
quick  wit,  why  I  am  leaving  Sicily.  It  has  always 
been  a  land  of  strong  contrasts  to  me,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  one  of  the  many  who  sit  in  the  shade. 
I,  who  have  basked  in  her  sunshine,  dread  the 
shadows  and  the  sadness. 

I  said  good-bye  to  Doris  yesterday,  amid  a  gay 
company  at  the  Hotel  des  Palmes.  She  seemed  a 
little  taken  aback  when  I  told  her  I  was  really 
going,  and  that  I  had  come  to  say  good-bye.  I 
believe  she  would  gladly  have  spent  my  last  day  in 
Palermo  with  me,  but  Jack  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  letting  her  do  so.  He  at  once  reminded 
her  of  the  invitation  she  had  accepted  to  lunch  and 

play  tennis  with  the  W s,  an  English  family 

who  have  lived  here  for  three  generations,  and  who 
have  one  of  the  most  delightful  gardens  in  this  city 
of  gardens.  I  don't  know  if  Doris  expected  me  to 
express  my  regret  more  openly  at  having  seen  so 
little  of  her  for  the  past  week,  but  I  thought  she 
looked  pale  and  pained  when  I  said  good-bye. 
How  unnaturally  old  friends  can  behave  when  they 
are  surrounded  by  conventionalities  and  unnatural 
people !  for  not  once  did  Doris  lift  her  eyes  to  mine, 
even  when  I  held  her  hand  at  parting,  and  I  be- 
haved in  the  most  cold-blooded  fashion. 

"  What  time  do  you  leave  to-morrow?"  she  said. 

"  At  7.80  p.m.,  from  the  Molo,"  I  answered. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      267 

"  I  can't  believe  you  are  really  going,  and  that 
I  am  to  be  left  here ;  you  are  a  part  of  Sicily  to  me." 

"  But  I  have  seen  so  little  of  you  in  Palermo,"  I 
said  a  little  impatiently;  M  my  going  away  can 
make  no  difference  now." 

"  Still,  you  were  here,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "  and 
although  I  didn't  see  you  I  knew  you  were  near, 
and  now  we  are  parting  just  like  any  other  chance 
acquaintances  of  travel." 

The  day  after. 

I  was  interrupted  yesterday,  and  had  to  leave  off 
suddenly,  for  such  an  amazing  thing  happened,  that 
my  boxes  are  all  unpacked  and  the  boat  has  sailed 
to  Naples  without  me.  I  was  telling  you  of  my 
farewell  with  Doris  at  the  Hotel  des  Palmes,  when 
Pietro  knocked  at  my  door  and  asked  me  at  what 
hour  I  would  like  the  carriage  ordered  to  convey  mc 
and  my  luggage  to  the  Molo.  The  carriage,  you 
must  know,  is  the  identical  cab  I  watched  being 
mended  with  a  pot  of  glue  and  a  soldo  worth  of  ink  ; 
I  could  see  it  in  the  courtyard  down  below,  but 
Pietro  gave  it  the  dignified  name  of  grande  carrozza. 

After  consulting  Pietro  as  to  how  long  it  would 
take  to  drive  to  the  Molo,  I  told  him  to  order  the 
grande  carrozza  for  6.45.  It  had  been  waiting  all 
the  afternoon  for  the  job,  and  the  driver  had 
adorned  himself  in  a  pair  of  very  papery  patent- 
leather  boots  in  honour  of  the  occasion,  and  had 
cracked  his  whip  with  a  "  Hulloa !  are  you  there?" 
sound  in  it  at  intervals  of  two  minutes  below  my 
bedroom  window  with  amazing  insistence.  A  smile 
from  me  was  sufficient  to  assure  him  that  he  was  to 
have  the  billet. 

"  Pietro,  come  back,"  I  cried,  as  he  ran  to  give 
the  order. 

"  Si,  si,  signore." 


268      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  Pietro." 

"  Si,  si,  signore;  subito,  subito." 

"  Pietro,"  I  said,  "  there  is  one  thing  I  wish  to 
see  before  I  leave  the  Palazzo  Monteleone." 

"  Si,  si,  signore  comandi." 

"  I  wish  to  see  the  middle  portion  of  that  white 
horse  on  my  ceiling;  it  is  in  the  room  which  is 
occupied  by  the  lady  who  wears  orange-blossom  in 
her  hair." 

"  Si,  si,  signore." 

Pietro  was  too  well-bred  to  smile  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  that  bridal  head. 

"  I  will  wait  in  the  salon,"  I  said,  "  until  you 
find  out  if  the  lady  is  out,  and  it  is  safe  to  invade 
her  room." 

"  Si,  si,  signore." 

The  salon  was  empty ;  and,  as  I  sat  there  waiting 
for  Pietro,  who  took  a  very  long  time  to  find  out 
such  a  simple  affair,  I  felt  like  a  London  caretaker 
when  the  family  is  out  of  town,  for  the  salon,  which 
is  entirely  furnished  out  of  the  relics  of  the  ancient 
Pagnatelli  splendour,  is  always  kept  strictly  under 
loose  linen  covers.  "  Ah,  dear  patched-up  Sicily  ! " 
I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  the  various  periods  in  the 
decadence  of  the  room.  "  How  can  I  ever  leave 
you?"  How  typically  Sicilian  everything  was! 
The  glorious  proportions  of  the  salon,  the  elaborate 
and  costly  mouldings  so  sadly  in  want  of  repair,  the 
effective  but  gaudy  ceiling,  representing  some 
questionable  classical  subject,  full  of  vigour  and 
wanton  action ;  the  enormous  chandeliers,  of  what 
might  or  might  not  be  rock  crystal  tied  up  in  yellow 
gauze;  the  terrible  pictures  of  vulgar  Madonnas 
nursing  leering  babies,  and  the  rather  too  realistic 
representations  of  Leda  and  the  swan,  reclining 
over  doorways  and  windows. 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      269 

When  I  was  comparing  the  past  with  the  present, 
and  wondering  upon  what  occasions  the  linen  covers 
were  removed  from  the  formal  furniture  and  the 
yellow  gauze  taken  off  the  chandeliers,  Pietro  sud- 
denly appeared,  and  bowed  himself  across  the 
slippery  floor. 

"  The  bellissima  signorina  Dorees  e  a  basso, 
signore,"  he  said. 

Pietro  always  ripples  with  smiles  when  he  thinks 
he  is  the  bearer  of  good  news. 

"  Invite  the  signorina  upstairs,"  I  said.  "  Is 
she  alone?" 

M  Si,  si,  signore,"  he  replied,  rippling  still  wider. 

In  a  few  moments  Doris  appeared,  and  Pietro 
ushered  her  in  with  a  magnificent  bow.  The  old 
serving-woman  who  lives  and  sleeps  in  the  cold 
passages,  and  to  whom  Doris  had  presented,  when 
she  left  the  palace,  a  five-franc  piece  (the  poor  old 
thing  usually  receives  the  crumbs  which  fall  from 
Pietro's  tips,  as  he  keeps  her  well  out  of  sight  when 
the  guests  are  departing)  and  a  pretty  girlish  hat, 
toddled  after  Doris  the  whole  length  of  the  sun- 
gallery,  which  is  stolen  from  the  salon  on  the 
southern  side,  muttering  caressing  words  and  at 
frequent  intervals  kissing  the  hem  of  her  gown. 
Pietro  waved  her  imperiously  away,  and  called  her 
"  an  old  fool  "  in  excellent  English.  Pietro's 
favourite  English  expression  when  I  first  came  here 
was  "  All  right  ";  but  since  Doris  explained  to 
him  that  it  was  very  rude,  he  has  never  used  it.  He 
does  not  quite  grasp  the  meaning  of  "  old  fool," 
but  he  has  heard  the  forestiere  speak  of  the  poor 
drudge  by  that  title  so  many  times  that  he  has 

added  it  to  his  list  of  English  expressions. 

18 


270      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

When  Pietro  left  the  room,  Doris  began  talking 
very  hurriedly  about  the  weather,  the  hot  wind  and 
so  forth,  expressing  a  hope  that  I  should  have  a  calm 
passage  to  Naples. 

"  We  never  used  to  talk  about  the  weather, 
Doris,"  I  said.  "  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come 
to  say  good-bye,  but  don't  let  us  waste  time  over 
weather  and  politenesses.  Tell  me  something 
about  yourself  :  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  did  you 
enjoy  the  luncheon-party  and  the  tennis?  How 
did  you  spend  the  evening?  There  was  a  glorious 
moon." 

She  did  not  answer  any  of  my  questions,  but 
played  nervously  with  the  bunch  of  charms  on  her 
long  chain. 

"  Well,  have  you  nothing  to  tell  me?"  I  said. 
"  I  have  been  trying  to  pass  the  time  one  has  to 
spend  indoors  by  going  on  with  my  story.  Louise 
asked  me  to  finish  it,  but  I  told  her  that  it  must 
wait — the  story  must  finish  itself." 

"  Our  poor  little  story,"  she  said  almost 
tenderly  :  "  it  takes  me  right  back  to  dear  Syra- 
cuse." 

"  Would  you  like  to  be  back  in  Syracuse?"  I 
said.  "  Are  you  as  sorry  as  I  am  that  we  ever  left 
it?" 

I  got  a  woman's  answer.  "  It  would  be  very  hot 
there  now  on  that  bare  Achradina.  Think  of  the 
sun  on  those  white  rocks  ! " 

"  I  can  think  of  the  cool  latomia,"  I  said. 
M  Have  you  forgotten  the  Garden  of  Theocritus?" 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  "  the  lovely  cool  dark 
latomia !  But  somehow  my  memory  of  Syracuse 
is  white  and  sunny  and  glittering.  I  want  to  shade 
my  eyes  when  I  think  of  it." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      271 

"  Are  you  still  of  the  same  opinion,"  I  asked : 
11  that  the  girl  would  have  preferred  the  elderly 
lover ;  that  the  young  man's  coming  need  not  have 
altered  her  feelings  towards  him?  or  are  you  able 
to  understand  the  situation  better  now?" 

As  I  paused  for  an  answer,  which  I  thought  I  had 
received  by  the  crimson  which  dyed  her  clear 
cheeks,  the  bells  of  the  Olivella  started  their  un- 
musical clapping  for  evensong,  and  the  big  salon 
vibrated  with  their  din.  I  took  one  unresisting 
hand  in  mine. 

"  Don't  you  agree?"  I  said,  trying  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  frank  eyes;  M  don't  you  agree  now 
that  youth  can  only  find  complete  sympathy  and 
understanding  in  youth — that  the  young  man's 
coming  showed  her  the  true  nature  of  her  feelings 
for  the  elderly  one  ? ' ' 

I  had  to  wait  some  moments  jfor  an  answer,  and 
when  it  came  I  was  puzzled. 

M  I  wish  I  knew,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  knew; 
that's  just  what  I  came  to  see  you  about.  Oh,  you 
mustn't  go  away  and  leave  me !" 

"  But  how  can  I  help  you?"  I  said.  "  My 
opinion  is  unaltered." 

II  I  believe  you  want  the  girl  to  marry  the  young 
man,"  she  said  hotly;  "  you  think  the  other  man 
was  glad  to  get  rid  of  her." 

Our  eyes  met  at  last,  and  before  hers  were  with- 
drawn the  little  spark  of  defiance  had  died  out  of 
them,  and  something  else  had  stolen  in. 

With  a  scarcely  perceptible  movement  she 
slipped  from  her  stiff  linen-covered  chair  to  her 
knees  on  the  floor  and  buried  her  bright  head  on  my 
shoulder;  a  little  tremble  ran  through  her  as  I 
touched  Her  pretty  hair. 


272      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

Without  lifting  her  head  she  drew  one  glove  off, 
and  a  hand  was  held  out  for  my  inspection.  Per- 
haps she  did  not  notice  the  start  of  surprise  I  gave 
when  I  saw  the  ring ;  she  certainly  could  not  have 
guessed  why  I  looked  at  it  so  long. 

"  Did  the  young  man  put  it  there?"  I  asked, 
"  and  yet  you  are  uncertain?" 

She  looked  up  at  me  again,  with  eyes  as  troubled 
as  an  unforgiven  child's,  and  as  full  of  tenderness  as 
a  woman's — such  blue,  entreating  eyes. 

"  It  was  the  moonlight,"  she  said,  with  a  voice 
full  of  apology,  "  the  moonlight  and  the  marina. 
I  couldn't  help  it.  He  insisted,  and  everything 
was  so  Southern  and  romantic.  Oh  !  it's  so  difficult 
for  a  girl  to  say  '  No  '  when — when " 

M  When  she  loves  the  man,"  I  said,  finishing  the 
sentence  jfor  her. 

A  little  sob  burst  from  her  lips,  and  the  words  : 

"  But  I  don't  love  him,  I  don't  love  him,  that's 
just  it.  Oh,  won't  you  ever  understand? — I  don't 
love  him  one  scrap  in  the  broad  daylight,  in  the 
unromantic  hotel.  I  never  would  have  let  him  put 
it  on  my  finger,  or  hope  for  a  moment,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  moon  and  the  marina  and  the  music ; 
and  I  had  been  so  lonely  and  miserable  all  day." 

"  But,  dear  child,"  I  said,  "  you  surely  have  not 
promised  to  marry  him  if  you  don't  love  him  ;  there 
is  no  earthly  reason  for  your  doing  so?" 

"  I  haven't,"  she  said.  "  I  haven't  promised 
anything ;  I  only  allowed  him  to  hope  I'm  free  yet. 
We  were  sitting  on  the  marina  together,  listening 
to  the  band  and  watching  other  people  making  love, 
— I  think  that  sort  of  thing  is  infectious,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  laugh, — "  and  Jack  was  in  one  of  his 
nicest  moods.     I  knew  he  was  very  fond  of  me,  and 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      273 

I  was  so  lonely.  You  were  going  away,  and  our 
good-bye  had  been  so  horrid,  I  couldn't  help  just 
letting  him  like  me  a  great  deal ;  and  then  it  kept 
getting  nicer  and  nicer — the  feeling  that,  after  all, 
some  one,  even  if  it  was  only  Jack,  really  liked  me 
and  wanted  me  to  love  him." 

I  stroked  her  hair  as  if  I  understood. 

"  It  was  all  your  fault,  every  bit  of  it,"  she  said ; 
"  so  don't  despise  me.  I  just  couldn't  snub  any 
one  who  was  kind  to  me,  and  when  he  put  his  arm 
round  my  waist,  I  wanted  to  cry  and  to  be  loved  a 
great  deal;  and  Jack  was  there,  and  of  course  he 
must  have  thought  all  that  meant  that  I  loved  him, 
and  it  was  only  because  I  was  so  miserable.  Why 
did  you  ever  send  me  away?"  she  said  suddenly, 
springing  to  her  feet. 

"  I  send  you  away,  little  one?"  I  said.  M  What 
about  the  ladies  in  the  salon  in  the  evenings?" 

"  If  I  had  stayed,"  she  said,  "  and  I  had  felt  like 
that — like  I  did  on  the  marina,  I  could  have  cried 
with  you,  and  then  I  wouldn't  have  got  into  such  a 
bother." 

"  And  might  I  have  loved  you  a  great  deal?"  I 
asked.     "  Would  you  have  snubbed  me?" 

"  You  would  never  have  done  it,"  she  said,  with 
a  little  sigh  and  a  provoking  blush.  Jack  took  this 
old-fashioned  ring  off  his  watch-chain,  and  before  I 
knew  what  he  was  doing  he  had  slipped  it  on  my 
finger.  It  was  his  mother's  ring;  he  says  it  was 
given  to  her  by  the  man  she  wronged,  and  she  asked 
Jack  never  to  put  it  on  the  finger  of  any  woman  but 
the  one  he  meant  to  marry." 

"  And  you  left  it  there,"  I  said,  "  and  by  so 
doing  you  gave  your  silent  consent." 


274      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  I  was  going  to  take  it  off  there  and  then,  but 
he  implored  me  to  wear  it  until  I  had  considered 
the  matter  for  a  day  or  two.  He  begged  so  hard 
and  looked  so  sad  that  I  couldn't  be  unkind.  Poor 
lady  l"  she  said,  turning  the  ring  round  and  round. 
11  Jack  says  she  was  very  unhappy.  She  was  only 
my  age  when  she  died ;  girls  married  so  young  in 
those  days,  didn't  they?" 

"  Yes,  and  those  old  days  were  my  days,  little 
Doris,"  I  said,  as  I  drew  her  unresistingly  closer  to 
my  side.  "  For  it  was  I  who  put  that  very  ring 
on  her  hand.  You  see,  I  am  old  enough  to  have 
been  Jack's  father." 

"  You  were  the  man  who  gave  that  ring  to  Jack's 
mother!"  she  cried  in  amazement.  "  You  were 
the  man  his  mother  wronged !  Oh  !  surely  it  isn't 
true  ?     I  can't  believe  it ! " 

Her  lips  trembled,  and  her  dear  eyes  became  little 
blue  lakes  of  tears. 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  it  seems  incredible  to  you,  but 
it  is  quite,  quite  true.  I  am  getting  an  old  man, 
you  see." 

She  began  pulling  off  the  ring. 
"  Then  I  can't  wear  it  another  hour,"  she  said. 
"  No,  I  can't  wear  it.  You  loved  Jack's  mother, 
and  she  treated  you  cruelly.  I  know  she  did. 
Jack  told  me  all  about  it,  and  how  she  regretted  it ; 
and  yet  I  have  never  heard  you  speak  bitterly  of  any 
woman.  But  that  is  the  reason  why  you" — she 
hesitated  for  words — M  why  you  won't  allow  your- 
self to  love  any  one  else.  Perhaps  you  are  afraid 
to  trust  a  woman?" 

"  I  have  forgiven  Alice  long  ago,"  I  answered, 
"  although  I  never  forgave  the  man  who  robbed  me 
of  her,  so  you  need  have  no  feeling  about  the  ring." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      275 

I  tried  to  put  it  back  on  her  finger.  "  The  wound 
in  my  heart  which  I  thought  was  healed  many  years 
ago  has  troubled  me  a  little  lately,  for  it  seems  hard 
that  it  should  be  his  son  who  is  now  to  rob  me  of 
you,  his  son  who  is  to  have  Doris  :  I  am  to  be  robbed 
again  in  the  second  generation  of  the  dearest  thing 
in  life.  Oh!  little  one,"  I  said,  when  I  saw  the 
pain  I  was  inflicting,  "  forgive  me  for  saying  this. 
I  am  a  brute  to  cast  the  shadow  of  my  spoilt  life  on 
the  brightness  of  yours." 

"  I  can't  marry  Jack,"  she  said;  "  that  settles 
it."  A  happier  look  came  into  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke.  "  I  will  tell  him  so  to-night.  I  will  tell 
him  the  whole  truth,  that  I  don't  love  him  enough 
to  marry  him.  He  has  amused  me  and  been  awfully 
kind  to  me,  and  he's  ever  so  much  nicer  than  you 
think;  but  as  a  husband  he  would  bore  me  to 
death."  She  laughed  a  little  nervously.  "  Don't 
think  me  flippant  and  a  dreadful  flirt,  but  a  girl 
can't  think  of  all  that  when  she  is  being  made  love 
to  for  the  first  time  ;  and  Jack  makes  love  very  well 
indeed — he  loses  all  his  indifference  then."  Her 
eyes  conveyed  a  stronger  protest  than  her  words. 

"  You  are  saying  all  this  for  my  sake,  Doris,"  I 
said ;  "  but  surely  I  would  rather  see  Alice's  boy 
marry  you  than  any  other  man." 

"Why  should  I  marry  any  other  man?"  she  said. 
"lam  not  one  of  S.  Pasquale's  girls." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  but  remember  the  old  Italian 
motto,  '  She  that  is  born  a  beauty  is  born  married.' 
It  is  the  natural  course  of  events  for  a  girl  like  you 
to  marry.  And  I  need  not  be  dog  in  the  manger 
about  it  because  I  can't  marry  you  myself;  I 
needn't  poison  your  mind  against  the  fellow  who  is 
going  to  do  it." 


276      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  I  suppose  you  can't  marry  me  yourself?"  she 
said,  as  simply  as  if  she  were  asking  me  why  I 
couldn't  go  out  for  a  walk  with  her. 

"  I  suppose  as  a  wife  I  would  bore  you  awfully, 
just  as  much  as  Jack  would  bore  me  as  a  husband ; 
but  I  might  improve.  I  shan't  always  be  so  young  ; 
women  soon  get  over  that ! " 

"  Doris,"  I  said,  "  don't  be  cruel;  my  heart  is 
sore  enough  already." 

"  I  was  trying  to  be  kind,"  she  said  gently ;  "  I 
don't  want  you  to  be  robbed  again." 

There  was  something  in  her  eyes  and  attitude 
which  gave  me  courage  to  tell  her  the  only  way  I 
could  see  to  prevent  it,  but  I  can't  tell  you,  Louise, 
what  I  said,  or  how  exactly  it  came  about ;  but  when 
Doris  was  in  my  arms  telling  me  that  I  had  driven 
her  into  proposing,  and  that  she  knew  she  loved  me 
ever  since  the  day  she  left  for  the  Hotel  des  Palmes, 
the  salon  door  was  flung  wide  open  and  the  shaved 
Swiss  hurried  in  (he  is  always  in  a  hurry  and  has  a 
habit  of  knocking  over  furniture).  He  suddenly 
stopped  when  he  saw  the  look  of  embarrassment  on 
Doris's  face.  "  Ach !  terrible-ness ! "  he  said,  as 
he  spilt  a  small  table  in  his  anxiety  to  get  out  of  the 
room.  "  Please  to  excuse  me.  I  did  not  under- 
stand that  zee  salon  was  so  engaged ;  I  make  great 
apology." 

The  bells  of  the  Olivella  were  still  filling  the  room 
with  sound  when  the  professor  and  Miss  Rosina 
were  ushered  in.  I  think  the  professor  grasped  the 
situation  very  quickly,  for  he  took  both  my  hands 
and  wrung  them  most  horribly  (the  professor's 
hands  are  not  pleasant  in  warm  weather,  but  I  was 
not  in  the  humour  to  resent  such  trifles). 

"  Dis  is  goot,"  he  said.  "  Already  you  can 
understand  what  happiness  I  feel;  I  am  very  re- 
joiced— so." 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY      277 

Miss  Rosina  looked  inquiringly  from  Doris  to  me. 

"  We  came  to  say  good-bye,"  she  said,  in  a 
mystified  air.  "  We  thought  you  were  going 
away.     I  don't  quite  understand." 

The  professor  stepped  carefully  across  the 
polished  floor  to  Doris,  who  was  looking  divinely 
foolish ;  he  shook  hands  very  elaborately. 

M  I  make  my  best  congratulations  to  you,  Miss 
Doris,"  he  said  very  gravely;  "  for  one  so  young 
you  have  made  a  wise  choice." 

Miss  Rosina  then  added  her  timid  congratulations 
to  that  of  her  lover's,  and  at  that  embarrassing 
moment  Pietro  bowed  himself  into  my  presence, 
trying  to  assume  a  mournful  expression. 

"  Prego,  signore,'9  he  said,  "  la  grande  carozza 
e  pronta."  He  spoke  with  an  air  of  apology,  as 
though  it  were  rude  of  him  to  tell  even  a  paying 
guest  that  the  cab  was  waiting  to  take  him  away. 
Pietro  always  speaks  pigeon  Italian  to  his  English 
guests ;  he  never  throws  his  irregular  verbs  or  fine 
idioms  before  swine,  or  perhaps  his  politeness  com- 
pels him  to  murder  his  own  beautiful  language  to 
suit  the  intelligence  of  the  forestiere. 

"  Pietro,"  I  said,  "  I  shall  not  require  the 
carriage.     I  am  not  going  to  Naples  to-night." 

"  Signore,"  he  said,  with  a  little  ring  of  distress 
in  his  voice;  he  had  seen  a  vision  of  a  ten-franc 
note  held  out  to  him  and  then  rudely  withdrawn, 
but  his  good  manners  asserted  themselves,  and  he 
said,  "  The  illustrious  signore  will  honour  our  house 
by  staying  a  few  days  longer,  grazie,  grazie?" 

"  Yes,  Pietro,  I  have  changed  my  mind.  Go 
and  give  the  cabman  three  francs  out  of  that,  and 
keep  the  rest  for  yourself."  As  I  put  ten  francs 
into  his  hand  he  looked  keenly  at  Doris,  and  his 
face  lit  up  with  an  exceeding  great  intelligence. 


278      BY  THE  WATERS  OF  SICILY 

"  The  bellissima  signorina  Dorees  has  been  kind, 
signore.  Non  si  dice  mai  tanto  una  cosa  che  non  sia 
qualche  cosa,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  knowing 
little  laugh,  which  practically  means  that  "  There 
was  some  truth  in  the  gossip,  after  all." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  and  perhaps  it  was  the  little 
pitchers  of  the  palace  which  spread  the  gossip,  for 
in  Sicily  I  believe  they  have  very  long  ears." 

Yours  affectionately,  J.  C. 


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